


Where We Belong

by pointerbrother



Category: One Direction
Genre: Angst, Child, Dubious Consent, Gay Sex, Homophobia, Infidelity, M/M, Rough Sex, Violent Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-27
Updated: 2017-12-04
Packaged: 2019-01-04 21:45:28
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 29
Words: 118,701
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12177126
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pointerbrother/pseuds/pointerbrother
Summary: They had it all. Reasonable flat, reasonable money, (somewhat) reasonable friends and love beyond all reason.They were perfect. Louis thought.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into Polski available: [Where We Belong [TŁUMACZENIE PL]](https://archiveofourown.org/works/12934086) by [dialectic_chaos](https://archiveofourown.org/users/dialectic_chaos/pseuds/dialectic_chaos)



> This is probably the most Larry-centric fic that I've written. Probably also the one I've felt the most emotional about when writing... 
> 
> Enjoy the pain :')

It feels like it comes out of the blue. Like Harry goes distant in the flick of a switch, stops coming to him, stops talking to him, stops wanting him. His mum tells him people who work from home sometimes go into themselves for a while, that it’s only a phase. Niall tells him just to throw Harry over the kitchen-table and pound it out of him. His sister tells him he doesn’t see the half of what goes on in Harry’s daily life and maybe he should ask once in awhile.

The thing is, he does ask. The first morning Harry starts acting different, fidgeting and laughing belatedly or not laughing at all, Louis squeezes his hip and asks him _what’s the matter, darling?_. Harry tells him nothing. Nothing’s the matter. So, Louis goes to work, because he’s an adult with a job and he can’t spend every waking hour worrying about Harry, even though that's exactly what he does, because he can't not.

When Harry hasn’t done the dishes that evening, hasn’t thought to cook or even eaten anything himself all day, Louis asks him again. _What’s wrong_? Harry tells him nothing.

It goes on for two weeks. It feels like two years. First it’s just the fidgeting. The spacing out and the sudden introversion and the lack of physical affection. Then it’s taking his phone with him everywhere he goes, popping out to _, uhm, get some milk_ at odd hours and whispering on the phone in the bathroom when Louis' lying in bed.

Louis tries to get through to him, tries to ask whether he’s done something, whether Harry’s gotten a writer's block or he’s just realised, like he did once before, that his entire six month’s of writing is total rubbish. Back then, he had a bit of a mini-depression too. Again, Harry tells him no.  _Nothing's wrong, Lou-eh_ and  _I'm just tired_.

He doesn’t initiate anything at all, the only physical contact Louis receives a sexless peck on the cheek before work, and after too, if he's particularly lucky. Louis tries, several times, but he’s always gently pushed off and it's hard to keep setting yourself up for rejection by the person you want the most. The sixth time in two weeks that Harry tells him he’s ‘tired’, Louis forgets to bite his tongue and spits; _what the fuck are you so tired for, you sit at home all day_. Worst part is, Harry doesn’t even really react.

In the end, he’s so unresponsive to anything but his phone that Louis starts to feel more like a piece of furniture than a boyfriend.

Of course, after one too many nights of awkward goodnight's and being afraid to reach out and touch, because, for the first time in eight years, being touched right back doesn’t seem like a given, it snaps.

And it’s so much worse than Louis could’ve ever expected.

It’s a Thursday evening, and he comes home from work, tired and spent, toes off his shoes and hangs his coat. He doesn’t call out for Harry soon as he walks into the living-room and the kitchen, and doesn’t find him. There’s nothing on the stove and there’s nothing in the sink, save for a plastic plate with crumpet-crumbs and half a mug of lukewarm tea. He hasn’t eaten properly all day again.

With that hard pit of anxiety in his stomach that’s become all too familiar lately, he walks into the bedroom.

Harry doesn't look up when he steps in. There’s a twitch in his face, a little shift of his arm, but he doesn’t lift from where he’s flat-backed on the bed, he doesn’t say anything. He’s staring at the ceiling, fingers fiddling with a piece of tissue paper, twisting it to pieces.

Two weeks ago, Louis would’ve jumped on his belly to make him groan and flip them over, or he’d have made a teasing remark about _no work in bed_ , because Harry gets that certain glazed-over look in his eye when he’s lost in the world of his next novel. But, that’s not the look in his eyes now, that’s not the Harry who’d fall off the bed just to smack Louis’ arse when he passed it. That’s not it.

“I’m taking a shower,” Louis announces, for no other reason than to give himself a moment’s relief from this deafening silence.

“Mm.”

And maybe it’s the sound of it; the fact that it’s hardly a noise, hardly even a hum, because Harry can’t be bothered to waste his fucking voice on him anymore, but Louis can't help a bitter; “I’ll pull myself off in there so you don’t have to worry about me nagging you.”

If Harry’d given a snippy retort at that, if he’d just sighed exasperatedly even, Louis would’ve locked himself in the bathroom and done exactly as he said he would, but he doesn’t. He doesn’t make any noise at all, and fuck it, but Louis’ curiosity gets the better of him and he turns.

The sight that meets him makes his face fall; Harry’s already looking at him, eyes big and damp.

“No- hey,” Louis sighs, “what’s the matter, baby?” Harry makes a whimpery noise at that, his wobbly lips pressing into a thin line and his eyes screwing shut. Louis strides across the floors. “No, H, what’s—”

“I have to tell you something, I,” his voice cracks into half a whisper, and then he opens his eyes again and they look so panicked that Louis feels it too, “I’ve done something horrible, Lou.”

Louis takes a seat at the foot of the bed, heart pounding at his ribcage, but he steadies his voice enough to ask; “what, darling?”

“I’ve done something, I- Lou, please don’t hate me.”

Louis closes a hand around Harry’s ankle and give it a gentle squeeze, even as he wants to scream for him to just spit it out already. “Harry, you’re really scaring me here. Come on, babe, nothing you can tell me that’ll—”  

“I’ve got a kid.”

For a moment, Louis just stares at him. “You’ve _what_?”

“I’ve got a kid.”

Louis shifts backwards a little. “Haz, what the fuck are you on about?” He gives a little chuckle and waits for Harry to do the same, but he doesn’t.

He just keeps the same wide-eyed, worried stare that makes Louis slowly slip his hand off his ankle. “Harry—”  

“I don’t- I didn’t know until—”  he wipes a hand across his mouth and nose and sniffles, sits up straight and throws a hand out at Louis, “they- she called me two weeks ago. After the thing at Niall and Jen’s, she called and, and- I’m so scared. I didn’t know, Louis, I swear I didn’t know.”

He lays a hand out on Louis’ and the sudden contact is what jerks him out of the momentary shock he was in. He still can’t understand. It’s got to be a joke. He stares at Harry, waits for the laugh, waits for the prank-crew to jump in through every door, because it’s got to be some sort of sick joke. “You—”

“She’s- it’s a girl, I. I was called up by the mother and I didn’t know how to. Louis—”  

“You’re fucking with me,” Louis says, voice going high and tight, but Harry just shakes his head slowly. A shaky breath falls from Louis’ lips. “You’re not fucking with me.” Harry's lips press thinner, tears streaking his cheeks now. Slowly, he begins to realise just how serious this is. “Oh my god. Oh my god, you're not- you’re not fucking with me, this is—”  

“I didn’t know until two weeks ago, Lou, I swear.”

He squeezes Louis’ hand with the one he still has covering it, and it sends a jolt through Louis’ body. He rips his hand out of Harry’s. He can’t think. He heard the words and he can process them, but- he can’t think. “How do you know?” he hears himself ask.

“How do I—”  

“How do you know it’s yours? How do you know for sure?”

Harry blinks, uncertain for a second. “I’ve- she had the tests.”

“She can’t take those tests without having a sample of your DNA first or—” Louis cuts himself off, his stomach dropping as he realises, “you’ve _met up_ with this woman? You’ve seen her and—”

“I had to be sure,” Harry says, pleading, “I couldn’t just- I wanted to know for sure before I rocked anything, I. Lou, please look at me.”

But, he can’t. He’s got his fingers in his hair, the heels of his hands pressed into his eyes and his thoughts scattered all across the room. He can’t think. “How old is this kid, you- have you met her?”

“No.”

Louis lifts his gaze. “How old is she? The kid.”

Harry bites his lip, his eyes welling up again. “Louis—”  

“How old is she, just tell me, can’t be that fuckin’ hard to—”  

“Two.”

His heart jumps up into his throat and then stops beating altogether. He can’t breathe. “Two?” It's hardly a whisper.

“Lou, it wasn't- it was when we’d had that massive row and you’d gone to your mum’s for the weekend and I- I can’t even fuckin’ remember what it was about, but at the time it seemed so big and I, I- I got drunk. I was drunk.”

Louis stares at him, unblinkingly, a painful lump growing hard in his throat. “You were drunk and _what_?”

“Lou,” he says, voice gone brittle, eyes pleading, but Louis doesn’t bite, doesn’t look away, so in the end he opens his mouth and says; “it was just that once. I swear.”

A high-pitched noise escapes Louis’ lips. He feels faint. This feels unreal, this can’t be right, this isn’t his Harry, his Harry wouldn’t ever- “just that once _what_ , Harry?”

Harry's sobbing now, properly, breathing all hiccuppy, but Louis doesn't speak, doesn't move, just stares at him relentlessly until he swallows thickly and says; “please don’t make me spell it out.”

“No,” Louis exclaims, because that’s just- _fuck_ , that's just not fair. “No, you don’t get to ask _anything_ of me right now, you don't get to sit there and cry, because- because all I know right now is that you’ve just told me you have a two-year-old kid, but I can’t make that fit, Harry, because two years ago you’d been with me—” he stops, catching himself just as his voice cracks, and then forces himself to finish, half-crying, “you’d been with _me_ for six years.”  

The look in Harry's eyes rips right through his chest.

He bends in on himself and clutches his mouth. “Oh, god. Oh, fuck—”  

“I was so drunk,” Harry sobs, “Lou, you've got to believe me, I- you’d stormed out and I couldn’t get hold of you and I thought… I didn’t think. I didn’t think at all. I’m so sorry, I’m so so sorry, and you’re so amazing, you’re so amazing, Lou, I love you so much—”

He leans in or reaches out, Louis isn’t sure, but he whacks whatever’s coming at him away and shifts backwards. His stomach’s turning, there’s a throb at the back of his throat, a prickling behind his eyes, threatening him not to try and use his voice, but he speaks through it anyway; “you fucked someone else. You fucked someone else, two years ago and you- you let me walk around like a fucking fool for two years?”

Harry gives a choked sob. “No, I- I didn’t want to rock the boat, I- Lou, I only remember waking up the following morning in a stranger’s bed and just going home and puking and crying and missing you and feeling like utter shit, I never—”  

Louis can’t breathe. His throat hurts, feels clogged with something too big to fit, only growing bigger. He’s going to throw up. “You were going to let me live the rest of my life never telling me.” It’s even worse when he says it aloud, the sound of his incredulous whisper jabbing him in the chest. “You were going to let me walk around like an oblivious fucking idiot for the rest of my life.”

“No, it wasn’t like that, I swear,” Harry exclaims, and his voice is all over the place, his eyes red and brimmed over again, lips wobbling as he speaks, “I didn’t want to hurt you, I’d rather go with it myself, I didn’t- it felt like it wouldn’t have made anything better. You said it yourself once, you said, Lou, you said if someone’d done something once, stupidly, you’d rather not know if they never did it again, you said that—”  

Louis hurls something through the room, maybe Harry’s phone, he isn’t sure, he doesn’t give a fuck. “I was a fucking _kid_ then, Harry!” he screams, “I didn't know fuck all about anything then, you _fucking_ —” his voice breaks and he throws his face down into his arms.

Harry takes it as an opening to lay a hand on his back and rub circles, as if he’s somehow in a position to console.

“Do not,” Louis grits out, his entire back going rigid under Harry’s touch, heat shooting up his spine, “do not _fucking_ touch me.”

“Lou—”  

Louis shakes him off roughly and sets off the bed because he can’t be this close to Harry right now, he can’t- he can’t breathe. “Fuck,” he marches into the bathroom, flicks on the faucet, cuts it off again and marches back out, “fuck you- what do you- how do I know you haven’t fucked a fuck-load of other people, then? You were never going to tell me about this one until you had to- how do I know—”   

“Louis,” Harry whimpers. Everything in his face is shaking, trembling, wobbling, wet. “Please, I- I couldn’t sleep for weeks after. And I, I spoke to Nick and he said it was better if I just- that it was selfish if I put that on you just to take it off my own chest, I—”

And _fuck_ , does he hate Nick too, but- “do not drag Nick into this. Do not try and shift this onto _anyone_ but yourself, you pathetic _fucking_ -” he cuts himself off, just before his voice goes from a hiss to a sob, drags his hands down his face and takes a long shaky breath to try and steady himself. “You fucked someone else.”

He looks back at Harry, some tiny ridiculous part of him still hoping that this is all just one big sick joke. But it isn’t, his world’s come crashing down around him in the space of one conversation and Harry’s sitting there, on the side of the bed, crying and biting at his own fingertips, and Louis loves him and wants him and feels sick just looking at him.

“You fucked some random fucking whore without a condom and then you went back to me and you—”

“ _No_!” Harry exclaims, eyes blowing wide and frantic, “no, it wasn’t like that, I, it broke, Louis, I’d never do that to you, I never even knew that it broke until she called me again, I. I’m so sorry, I love you, I love you so much, you’re the only one I want, I’m so sorry.”

Louis steadies himself back against the wall, boring his fingers into his temples.

Harry fucked someone else. Harry fucked a woman, probably thin and leggy, long blonde hair and wide white smile like he likes them. Maybe she made him wear the condom, maybe he didn’t even wear it, maybe he’s still lying right now, maybe he made the exact same noises when he came in her as he does with Louis.

Oh, he’s going to be sick.

Somewhere in the process, Harry’s come up and put his arms around him. He doesn’t want them there, and yet his body does, always moves into Harry’s touch, his smell and his warmth. He’s got his arms up at his chest, defense, and they get pressed to Harry’s too as Harry pushes himself close as he can and digs his fingers into Louis’ back.

“I’m so sorry, I love you, you're so amazing,” he sniffles, nose digging into the crook of Louis’ neck, arms getting tighter and tighter around him, like trying to force him to stay. “I only want you, I’m so sorry, please forgive me, Lou, I love you so much—” Harry babbles, mouth at Louis’ collarbones, just damp and breathy enough to send chills down Louis’ spine and- that mouth’s been on someone else.

He’s going to be sick.

“No,” the first shove is too weak, Harry’s too tight around him. “No no no,” he does it again, harder, punchier, until Harry lets up and stumbles backwards and looks at him, face absolutely wrecked, hair sticking to the sides of it, whimpery little _sorry, please, I love you_ ’s between hitching breaths and- _no_. “No, no, I can’t- I’ve gotta- I’ve gotta get out.”

“No, Louis, please—”  

There’s a hand grazing Louis’ back as he moves, but he doesn’t let himself melt back into it, doesn’t let Harry's pleads get the better of him, just marches on through the flat that’s been his and Harry’s home for the past five years of his life. The living-room where, only three weeks ago, they sat and chatted idly about repainting, Harry wanted canary yellow walls and Louis wanted- not that, and now it’s all so fucking meaningless. The last two years of his life, the picture above the coat-racks in the entrance hall of them in from of the building, arms around each other, Louis squinting at the sun and Harry grinning at him fondly, the cheesy wall-sticker on the front door that says _Home is where the heart is_.

Harry’s known, for all that time, for two whole fucking years of   _just you and me, baby, just the two of us against the world_ \- and Louis’ been walking around like a stupid oblivious _fucking_ idiot, while fucking Nick laughed behind his back, _actually_  believing— oh, he’s going to be sick. 

He slams the front door behind him, takes their _Welcome Home_ -mat and throws it over the stair-railing, watches it fall four stories down and then gets in the lift and stands still, alone, for the first time since his world got torn apart. 

And then he’s sick, all over his shoes.


	2. Chapter 2

He ends up sitting on a moldy wooden bench outside a train station, staring at his contact list. The only thing he managed to grab on his way out was his phone, he doesn’t even have his keys or a coat. He’s freezing cold, fingers stiff and trembling around the phone. He got the worst of the puke off his shoes by wiping them angrily at some bushes, but she still feels sick to his stomach, still feels like he’s without any ground beneath him, like it’s bad now, but in a minute, when he really thinks about it, it’ll be so, so much worse.

He can’t call up his mum. He won’t.

He can’t call up Niall and Jennie, or Zayn, or Stan and Emma, he can’t call up anyone he knows who know Harry too. He refuses to let them know what’s happened before he’s even sure what he feels about it himself. He knows he feels sick right now. He knows he wants to puke again every time he lets his thoughts so much as wander in the direction of him with her. He isn’t sure what he wants to do about it. His and Harry’s friends aren’t judgy shits, of course they aren’t, but the thought of any of them knowing what Harry’s done, knowing that he’s willingly, knowingly, thoughtlessly done that to Louis because he doesn’t give a shit, it makes him feel like he isn’t worth shit and they’ll know it too.

So, he ends up calling up the only person he can.

Fifteen minutes later, her car pulls up to the curb before him. The moment she leans in and pushes the passenger-door open and looks up at him, she sees it. She see’s it in his face, whatever it is he can’t hide, and she says; “oh, Lou” and, just like that, his eyes well up again.

“Can I stay at yours for a bit?”

“As long as you want,” she says, “is it Harry?”

“Yeah.”

“As long as you want, love.”

Eleanor drives him home with the radio on low, a hand on his knee and without asking any questions he can’t bear to answer right now.

It’s ages since he’s been in her flat, last they even saw each other over pints at the pub a month ago. It looks the same as it did last, pale grey walls, clean surfaces and expensive throw pillows. She’s always treated her flat like she does her clothing choices; style over comfort.

It’s always stood in sharp contrast to the way which she treats the ones around her; she’s the best woman he knows. He was going to marry her once, when he was just a kid. He was going to make her his wife and she was going to be the best wife anyone could’ve ever wished for. He was, and he would’ve, until he met someone that made him see what it _really_ meant to want to spend the rest of your life with just one person.

She took it nicely. Said she knew all along, that women sense these things. He’s not sure whether that’s true, but they got over it, because she loved him more than she hated him and he loved her as much as he could, in the way that he could.

Sitting here, in her sparsely decorated one-woman flat, with a handle-less charcoal-coloured tea mug in his hands and tight, tear-stained cheeks, he thinks, maybe he should just stay here forever. Maybe he could just sit right here, with a thousand pound-pillow in his lap and never think about anything outside of this little room ever again.

He thinks it, for a second. Then he can’t keep reality at bay any longer. Then it rushes back to him, a massive wave of all that’s just happened landing heavily on his chest.

His eyes begin to warm again, going blurry at the bottom.

“Sure you don’t want something to eat, darling?” Eleanor calls from the kitchen.

He looks down into his tea, blinking it away. “No, I’m good, thanks,” he manages on half a voice.

She hasn’t yet asked him what happened, specifically. He hopes that maybe she’ll guess it without having to be told and he won’t have to say it aloud. He doesn’t think he can, right now, without breaking down completely.

“Sorry,” she says, coming into the living-room with a tray of biscuits, “I just bought all of these and you-” she takes one glance at him - he doesn’t see it, doesn’t lift his gaze from the thin layer of dust accumulated in the surface of his unsipped tea, but he can feel her eyes on him - and cuts herself off. “Fuck the biscuits,” she says, dropping them to her coffee-table and plopping down in from of him, “what’s he done? S’he broken up with you?”

“No, he’s—” Broken me. Broken _us_. “He’s fucked up,” Louis says, forcing himself to look up and into her eyes. She looks so worried that he wants to scream. “Fucked everything up, he’s- fuck, he’s fucked us up so bad, I don’t—”

“Darling,” she lays a hand on his foot, because it’s the only thing within reach. Maybe she’s scared to come any closer, touch him and break him into a thousand pieces, maybe he looks as fragile as he feels inside right now, because she settles for the foot as he sniffles pathetically and wipes angrily at his waterlines. “Did he cheat on you?”

Louis’ head snaps up. It’s not insane that she’d ask that, but it’s terrible, it’s so so terrible hearing someone say it out loud. “Yeah,” he says, once he’s found half a voice, “yeah, he- he fucked someone else.”

“Oh, darling.”

“But it’s not just that, he—” he can’t even say it in his own head. He can’t even make it make any fucking sense.

Harry can’t have a child with someone else. Harry can’t have some little kid running around out there, who looks half-way like him and half-way like her. They were supposed to have that together. They had plans.

They were supposed to share that first with each other, they were supposed to have a little baby one day and he was supposed to look up into Harry’s eyes that very first time he got to hold it, they were supposed to share that together. And now it’s ruined. Now he’s done that already, with someone else, now he’s ruined that and taken it away from them. He wonders if the kid looks like Harry. If Harry hopes it does. If he always wished, even though he never said it, that he could’ve been with someone who could give him kids that were half him, half them.

“Fuck, Ellie, he got someone pregnant.”

It’s quiet for a moment, save for the fast, hiccupy sounds of Louis’ breathing as he tries not to fall apart entirely. “He—” she says, after a moment, “he _what_?”

“Some woman’s had his child, I can’t—” he meets her eye and she looks, just- shocked, “yeah, I know, I can’t- fuck, I can’t have it make sense in my own head, I- El, he’s got some two-year-old out there cause he fucked some random whore without a fuckin’ condom, he’s such a _fucking_ —”

“Yeah,” she says breathily, “yeah, fuck- Louis, sorry, I can’t even comprehend that he’d—”

“I know, I know, I can’t either, he’s gone and fucked my entire life up in fucking- hours, I can’t- _shit_.”

He splashes hot tea over the edges of the mug and curses. She takes it from him and comes closer them, wrapping him up in her arms. She smells like pricey perfume and some coconut-papaya-shampoo she’s testing for her blog, but, behind all of that, she also smells like herself; the girl he’s known since he was a kid. He buries into her neck and falls apart, gets her cashmere sweater all wet and snotty and she doesn’t shift, doesn’t move, just holds him through it.

 

*

 

He calls in sick the next day, through Eleanor’s phone, because she’s taken his and put it in an unknown spot. Eleanor doesn’t have any meetings or lunches so she stays home with him, watching telly and not talking. She tries a couple of times, bless her, careful little _how are you feeling?_ ’s and _what are you thinking?_ ’s whenever she catches him chewing on the sleeves of his hoodie and not actually looking at the telly. _Not much right now_ , he tells her. _Still can’t quite comprehend what’s happened._

It’s true and it isn’t. He can’t comprehend it, _fuck_ knows he doesn’t want to, but he _is_ thinking about it. He can’t _stop_ fucking thinking about it. He can’t stop thinking about Harry, going home with someone that isn’t him, waking up with her, getting out of her bed, still smelling like her and then coming home, showering and calling Louis up to tell him he loved him and wanted him home. He can’t help imagining what she looks like, what she talks like, how she fucks, how _he_ fucked her.

He can’t help stealing glances at Eleanor, whenever she allows herself to forget about him and become immersed in whatever shit-show they’re watching. Wondering what she thinks of him. If she thinks _well there we go, that’s what you_   _get._ If she thinks it was bound to happen, that Louis was stupid for ever thinking he could have someone like Harry and keep him, _really_ keep him, all too himself. If she knew, all along, if it was just an unsaid thing that everybody knew about them - _Harry cheats, of course he cheats, look at that cheeky charmer_ - except for Louis because he’s so _fucking_ delusional.

He can’t help that eighteen-year-old boy inside of him, having pined for two and a half years.

“Where did you put my phone?” he asks her in the evening. He tries to sound casual, like he hasn’t been rehearsing the sentence in his head over and over for the past hour.

She gives him a wary look. “Why? Thought you wanted a day off from- everything.”

“Yeah, but- I just feel I need to check up on, stuff. I mean, I haven’t even got my fuckin’ keys.”

“Well- it’s in the top left cabinet in the kitchen. Red tin can,” she says, useless, but lovely. “But, Lou, if- I can go and pick some stuff up from your flat if you don’t want to see him right now,” she tries, “I can go through your phone too, if there’s anything you want to see and anything you… well, don’t want to see right now.”

He gives a little smile. She is lovely. “You’re lovely. You’re right too,” he says, nodding and turning back to the telly, “you’re right, I don’t want to look at it.”

 

*

 

He lasts until the following evening. Eleanor cancels a shopping- and photo-session with Max to keep Louis company in the day-time, but in the evening, there’s a dinner she can’t get out of.

After she’s left, he lasts exactly two hours, pushing food around on a charcoal-grey plate and staring at some brilliant movie he still can’t manage to get into, before he goes and finds the phone.

It’s dead. His phone is dead and he didn’t bring the charger and Eleanor’s got the wrong charger and right now, standing here alone in a flat that isn’t home, doesn’t feel like home, doesn’t look like home, doesn’t smell like home, hasn’t got Harry in it, not even his stupid pleading fucking texts, that’s just the most crushing thing in the world.  

Ten minutes later, he finds himself on the bus back home. Fifteen minutes later, he finds himself on his street. Eighteen minutes later, he stands in the lift where he puked on his own shoes. Nineteen minutes later, he’s ringing the doorbell to his own flat.

Twenty minutes later, Harry opens the door.

He’s wearing Louis’ t-shirt, the blue one he usually sleeps in. It’s too tight around his arms, too short around his belly and it’s still got the same coffee-stain on it that it had when Louis threw it in the hamper three days ago. He isn’t wearing trousers, his hair’s greasy, clumping together in long dark strings around his collarbones, he’s red around the eyes, puffy like he hasn’t stopped crying since Louis left.

He’s crying again now, eyes filling and hands twitching round the door-handle, like he’s fighting himself not to reach out and yank Louis close.

He fucked someone else.

“Hi,” Harry says, hoarsely, and the word feels too small, too insignificant, but Louis can’t think of a single fucking thing that wouldn’t right now.

“Hi.”

It’s only been two days. They’ve been apart for much longer before. And yet, it feels like it’s been ages, because when Louis looks at Harry now, when he sees the only person he’s ever wanted since he was sixteen, it’s like there’s been a shift. It’s the same green eyes, the same red lips, the same big nose that Louis accidentally kissed the first time he ever tried for something more than just platonic, but it isn’t the same. It isn’t the man who’s been his and only his for the past eight years of his life, not any more.

He fucked someone else.

“Do you want to, like,” Harry steps backwards, stumbling, nervous, “come in or—”

“I just wanted to get some of my stuff.”

He doesn’t miss the way Harry’s entire face falls.

He keeps it together though, lifts his head and nods, presses himself back against a wall so Louis doesn’t have to slide against him in the narrow hall.

The flat looks as it did when Louis left it, as it did before Harry changed what being here felt like. The couch hasn’t even been sat in. The plate and the tea-mug Louis saw in the kitchen sink two days ago haven’t moved an inch, haven’t even been accompanied by new dishes. Harry hasn’t eaten since he left.

“I- I would’ve cleaned if I knew you were coming home,” Harry says, following him warily. _Home_. _Coming home_. He doesn’t know why, but the words cut right through his chest. “I mean, I- d’you want a cuppa tea or, uhm.”

Louis stands at the dining table, the cheap one they pull into an eight-seater when they have all their friends over. He can’t count the amount of times he’s sat there, at the end of the table, chatting and laughing and then glancing across from him and finding Harry, face in one hand, smiling at him softly.

His stomach twists horribly. Every fond memory, every picture, every good thing in the last two years of his life, it feels so bitterly stained, because  _he fucked someone else._ He fucked someone else and he knew for all that time, every time he looked at Louis, every time he kissed him, every time they sat at this table and talked about things they’d never do outside their two-some, and Louis thought, he _actually_ thought that he knew Harry better than anyone _._

“- and we- we brought Nick over, sometimes,” he says, words spilling without filter, right out of his head, “we had him here just a few weeks ago, he came to our dinner-thing and he- he knew about you. He knew you’d been cheating on me all along and this was all—”

“Louis—”

Louis spins on his heel, everything boiling over inside of him suddenly, neck flashing hot, sight going blurry, “you let me walk around like a _fucking_ idiot, you let your friends know more about us than _I_ did, you made me look like such a _fucking_ —”

In a second, Harry’s across the floor and around him, tight and unrelenting. Louis punches at him, weakly, his chest and his stomach, and Harry buries into his neck and holds him tighter and tells him over and over, like a chant _I’m sorry, I love you, I’m so sorry_.

Louis fists his hands up in the fabric of the t-shirt, the front of it soaking as his face presses into Harry’s chest.

“I love you, I love you, please come home,” Harry pleads frantically, “I only want you, I just want you, I’m so sorry, I fucked up, Lou, I love you—”

His cheek brushes Louis’, cold and soft, and then his lips, wet and needy. Harry continues up his face, his ear, his jaw, the side of his mouth. Closing his eyes, it’s almost the same as before. It’s those same lips, plush against his skin, it’s those same hands, strong under his thighs as Harry lifts him off the floor.

With an arm underneath his bum, a hand in the back of his hair, Harry walks them to their bedroom and lays him out on their bed.

Louis doesn’t know why he doesn’t stop it. Maybe he’s weak. Maybe he’s pathetic and spineless. Maybe he just craves the distraction.

He closes his eyes, bites at Harry’s shoulder, digs his nails into his back, and tells him _harder. Harder, Harry, harder_ and Harry whines and pants into the crook of his neck, grabs and clasps at him and falls apart when he comes, babbling _I want you, I only want you, I’m so sorry, Lou, I only want you_.

He doesn’t stop after, clings to Louis and cries and apologises and thanks him for coming home and promises, promises so many things.

The thing is, though, Louis thinks as he stares at the wall with a sleeping Harry wrapped around him, finally having tired himself out, that his promises don’t mean shit anymore.


	3. Chapter 3

When he wakes the morning after, the bathroom door is ajar and the shower’s running. He puts his phone in the charger and lies there for a moment, just coming back to reality. There’s a part of him that still can’t quite figure out what he feels, apart from sickness at the thought of what Harry’s done. There’s a part of him that fears Harry might think everything’s all right again, or at least on the way to be, just because they fucked last night and Louis stayed over.

But that’s not what that was. It was weakness and familiarity and feeling vulnerable, in need of the person he always wants as close as can be, but it wasn’t resolution.

It doesn’t make him feel any less horrible, soon as he wakes and remembers.

“Louis?” Harry calls from the shower, when Louis’ phone comes back to life with a loud screechy tune. It startles him, just being talked to by Harry, and not in any good way. Sets his heart galloping, his body into flight-mode.

He grabs his phone, hoping for a bit of distraction.

Then the messages from the other night start ticking in.

**H - louis please come back we can talk**

**H - baby please lets talk about it**

**H - where are you**

**H - where have u gone**

**H - ur keys are here, are u all right?**

**H - louis??!**

They keep coming, so many so fast that the screen begins lagging from it.

“Lou,” Harry says, walking in from the bathroom, towel round his waist and a faint crease between his brows. He never wraps a towel round anywhere. “Who’s texting?”

“No one.” Louis flicks the screen off.

He sits for a moment, legs over the edge off the bed, elbows rested on his knees and face in his hands. He can feel Harry’s eyes on him, can feel the thick silence between them, pressing at his throat, suffocating him. They’re probably meant to talk now. He’s probably meant to sit Harry down and ask him everything he needs to know and then they’re supposed to cry again and then, maybe, they’re supposed to fuck again, talk again, talk until they run out of fucking voice.

But, Louis doesn’t want to talk. He doesn’t want to fucking know.

“I’m- I’ve gotta call the office,” he says, hurriedly, doesn’t bother to check Harry’s expression to see if he buys it, just grabs his phone and gets out of there before the walls close in on him.

 -

Eleanor’s called him a couple of times. She’s never been the worrying type, tends to go with _well what are the chances something’s gone wrong? Zilch_ rather than _where the fuck are you you, I thought you were dead?!_ , but her last text does read **just dont go and do something stupid darling**. It’s debatable whether he obeyed her wishes or not.

He types out a text for her, deletes it, types a new one, deletes again and calls her up instead.

“Hiii, I’m just - sorry, I’ll just be a minute, I have to take this, I - yeah, hi, love, how are you? Where are you, are you all right?”

“Oh, I didn’t mean to interrupt you-”

“No, it’s just a lunch with these collabbers, have to be nice to them, but they’re boring as all hell and you didn’t hear that from me- anyway, where- how are you?”

He stands in the front hall, actually. Staring at the door. Wanting to run out of there so badly, no keys, no goodbyes, no nothing, just run and never have to face Harry again. He wants to and he doesn’t. “I’m back at the flat- my own flat.”

“Oh. Right. Right. And Harry, he’s—”

“Yeah, he’s,” Louis casts a quick glance over his shoulder, “he’s here too.”

“Right. All right.”

There’s disappointment there, wrapped up careful concern. She’s disappointed in him. He can’t blame her. He is too.

“I had to come back, it’s my flat too, I’ve got work in the morning and I, I’ve got to have my shit in order, I—”

“Louis?”

He catches his breath. “Yes?”

“You don’t have to explain yourself to me. If anything, I think Harry needs to leave the flat. I mean, if you need space from him, that is. I don’t know what- what you’re thinking. Whether you’ve decided to give things another go or…?”

There’s a moment of silence where he doesn’t realise she expects him to speak. He’s too caught up in that stupid, cheap-looking _Home Is Where The Heart Is_ -sticker on the door. 

“- Louis?”

“Yes?”

“Uhm, I- right, I’m sorry, darling, I have to run. Call me whenever, I- Max’ social skills are severe, I’ve gotta run, I’ll call you later!”

And just like that, he’s alone again, staring at the door. Wanting to run through it so badly.

He settles for aggressively peeling down the wall-sticker.

When Harry comes up behind him and sees what he’s doing, Louis just mutters something about _cheap shit_ and Harry says, in that sickeningly sweet voice he’s been using ever since, _yeah it’s fine, you’re right, babe_.

It seems Harry’s accepted that Louis doesn’t want to talk, at least not yet. Maybe he’s decided that he’s just going to wait until he’s ready, that the biggest obstacle was getting him back home and now that he’s managed, he’ll give Louis space and time.

And so they tip-toe around each other, the only verbal exchanges throughout the day Harry’s overly light-voiced _you hungry_ ’s, _can i get you anything_ ’s, _you sure you don’t need anything_ ’s, _do you want a cuppa tea, do you want a cuppa tea, doyouwannacuppatea?!!?_

Louis knows he means well, he does, but then, every time they accidentally meet each other’s eyes it’s just- horrible.

They play pretend for exactly two weeks. Louis buries himself in work, and Harry pretends to be doing the same, always on his laptop when Louis comes home. He cleans and he cooks every evening, proper nice from-scratch meals and he’s always ready to jump out of his seat and make a cup of tea, pop to the shop for ciggy’s, do anything Louis wants, whenever Louis wants. And it’s lovely and he means well and then he sits there, in the other end of the room after dinner, when they don’t talk, they don’t cuddle up and watch telly, they don’t even fucking look at each other, and Louis glances up from his phone or his book or whatever the fuck he’s distracting himself with and he finds those eyes, those big worried eyes, already on him.

And he feels sick again.

A Sunday morning, Louis catches Harry crying in the kitchen. He’s ‘rinsing dishes’, but his arms hang slack down in the sink and there’s a soft shake of his shoulders, a string of erratic little gasps and sniffles.

“Harry,” Louis says, immediately, without thinking.

When Harry quickly begins moving again, clinking dishes and scrubbing violently, clears his throat and says “morning”, Louis lets him get away with it. He doesn’t know what to do with a crying Harry, because seeing Harry cry both makes him want to yell, because it isn’t his fucking turn, he doesn’t deserve to stand there feeling fucking sorry for himself, _and_ want to wrap himself around him and kiss it all better.

He stifles his natural reaction, opening the fridge.

“I can leave if you want me to.”

Louis freezes. He swallows down the sudden screaming sob that’s just jumped up his throat, asking; “you want to leave?”

Harry gives a shaky sigh. “I want to be with you, Lou, that’s literally _all_ I want,” he says, voice frail and unsteady, “but if- like, you need space, I spoke to, uhm, Nick and- I can stay in his spare room for a bit, if you,” he pauses for a moment, then says, pleading; “Lou, I just feel like I don’t know what you’re thinking. Like, at _all_. It’s scaring the fuck out of me, I just- please say something. Please just… say _something_.”

“Well, what do you want me to tell you?” Louis snaps, slamming the fridge and spinning round, “that I’m hurt? That you’ve broken fuckin’- fuckin’ _everything_?! That I can’t stop fucking thinking about it whenever I look at you? That I want to tell you to leave, to go and fuck right off, but then I don’t because I can’t trust that you won’t fuck someone else when you’re not here? Or- or that I forgive you?” he asks, exasperated, “you want me to tell you that I fucking forgive you, is that it?”

The crooks of Harry’s mouth are drooping downwards, teeth pressed deep into his bottom lip. He shakes his head.

“Good,” Louis says, “because I can’t right now. I don’t forgive you. I can’t tell you- I can’t tell you anything, basically, other than that this is how it’s gonna be for a while, if you don’t choose to fuck off on me and go stay with Nick or whoever the fuck- because, I’m- you’ve fucked up, Harry. You’ve fucked up so badly and I’m so, so, so pissed at you, but I don’t know how to- I want to know every little detail, but I don’t and then I-”

“Louis,” Harry cuts through, voice low, but still sharp enough that Louis’ mouth snaps shut, “the only thing I need to know right now, is that I’m not making you uncomfortable by still staying here with you. Because if- fuck, if the only reason we’re still here together is that you don’t want to leave your own flat then I don’t want to make it worse on you by staying. That’s all I’m saying, okay? I want to do anything, _everything_ - rip down the fuckin’ sky if you tell me. I just- tell me. Is it better if I go? For you?”

He presses his lips together. He drags a hand through his hair. He looks at Harry, leaned back against the counter in trackies and a white tee, watching his soapy fingers as he fidgets with them nervously.

He could ask now. He could ask about her. He could ask about the kid - _fuck_ , that’s still so fucking surreal. He could ask about every little detail, every little lie, every motivation behind everything and then Harry could answer him and then he could go around hoping he hadn’t just been lied to all over again.

He could, but he just can’t. 

“I don’t want you to go,” he hears himself say, instead, “I don’t want you to go, okay? That’s the only thing I can tell you right now.”

Harry nods eagerly. “Yes, I- yeah. Whatever you want, Lou, I- yes.”

“Yeah.” Louis rubs at the bridge of his nose, “yeah, okay. You making tea or what?”

“Yes!”

 

*

 

That evening, Harry doesn’t sleep on the couch. He’s been doing it since last weekend, when Louis literally kicked him out of bed - albeit in his sleep - for coming too close, and Louis hasn’t objected once. It’s not been nice, lying alone in the bed they bought together, the one that was never ever meant to be slept in alone. But it’s been better.

It’s been better than- whatever this is.

Louis pretends to be reading, nose in some book he doesn’t even fucking like. Harry pretends not to know that.

He came to bed this evening, awkwardly, slid in from his side and then, when Louis didn’t lift his head or speak, because he didn’t know what the fuck to say or do with it, he lied and stared at the ceiling for five minutes straight. In the end, he pulled out his phone and Louis couldn’t stifle a jerky shift at it, couldn’t stop himself from craning his neck to try and check the screen.

He tries a second time, when he thinks Harry doesn’t notice, but he does. “S’ just my editor,” he drawls.

He didn’t need to say that. He never usually says, unless Louis asks. It’s been natural _not_ to ask who Harry texts or calls unless there’s been a particular reason. It’s never been thought of as something to wonder or worry about. It’s been trust.

But that was then and this is now.

“S’he not have a life?” Louis mutters, turning a page in the book he isn’t reading.

“She,” Harry corrects, and yes, Louis knew that. Doesn’t make a difference, of course, because Harry fucks fucking everyone, men, women, people who aren’t his fucking boyfriend. “And yes, she does have a life, what do you mean?”

“It’s arse o’clock in the evening.”

“Arse, schmarse,” Harry says, but Louis doesn’t so much as puff chuckly air out through his nose, so he quickly speaks again; “she’s just pressing about some deadlines. I’ve, uhm, fallen a bit behind lately…”

“Then it beats me what the hell you’ve been doing on that laptop every hour of the day,” Louis snorts.

“I _have_ been trying to write,” he exclaims, “you can check my browsing history, you can go through all my e-mails, I-” he shifts around and then sticks his phone in Louis’ face, “you can go through my phone, if you want, I’m not hiding anything, I swear.”

Louis glances at the phone, and then Harry, tired. “I wasn’t getting at anything,” he sighs, pushing it out of his face, “I was just- saying. I was just saying. You’d been on your laptop a lot. It wasn’t anything, it, it wasn’t-” oh, he hates how tense this is. How difficult it is, the thing that used to come natural. “I’m gonna get the lights now. All right?”

“Yeah, I- yeah.”

The darkness feels like utter relief. Like, finally, he can look anywhere he wants without having to worry that he’ll accidentally lock eyes with Harry.

Oh, this is so terrible. It’s _so_ terrible. It’s so quiet in here, he can’t think, he can’t sleep, he can’t stand the sound of Harry’s breathing right now, fast-paced and shallow.  

“Harry—”

“Yeah?” Harry says, almost overlapping. He shifts onto his side.

“I don’t know,” Louis says, because it’s the truth. “I just, ehm…”

He turns onto his side too, looking at Harry. The lines of his face are blurred here in the dark, but his eyes are wide and bright, watching Louis intently. His hair’s pulled back in a loose bun, little curls falling out around his face. Louis drags a thumb along his cheekbone. When Louis first met him, he was such a baby-face, puffy cheeks and milky-soft round the jaw. He’s grown into such a beautiful man.

Grown out of Louis, maybe.

He nuzzles into Louis’ hand. “I miss you.”

“Yeah,” Louis breathes, as his stomach warms, just for a second, before it twists, nauseatingly.

He fucked someone else.

Harry comes closer, three wary movements, and then his mouth is on Louis’. It hasn’t been since the second night Louis was back home, in the bathroom, thinking the sex they had the first night meant he could. And maybe he could, Louis had thought, until he’d had to push Harry off and tell him _no, no I’m sorry, I just can’t do it_.  

Now, he lets himself be rolled onto his back again, Harry tipping half-way over him, hand curling round the side of his face. Louis tries to ease into it, tries to give into the part of him that still wants Harry like he’s sixteen years old, going crimson at the slightest brush of skin. He tries, but he can’t, he can’t get out of his head, he can’t let go of that little voice inside of it, reminding him that Harry did this with somebody else.

Harry kisses down his neck and it’s _so_ good, it’s _so_ missed, but he’s done it to her too. Harry slips a hand down and kneads at Louis’ bulge, gently, and Louis thinks, well, he hasn’t done that to her, at least. But then he thinks, maybe Harry preferred it that way; maybe it felt like relief, excitement, getting to be with a woman again. Maybe he still thinks about it, misses it, sometimes, when he’s with Louis, maybe he just couldn’t go without pussy for the rest of his life, needed it so badly he just couldn’t help himself.

He pushes Harry off.

“You all right?” he asks immediately, eyes going wide and worried as he props himself up on one elbow.

And Louis can’t stand it, can’t stand those eyes on him, not right now, it’s too much.

He rolls over. Harry follows, fitting around him from behind. His arms snake around Louis, one hand slipping up his t-shirt, warm as it splays out on his belly. He puts his mouth to Louis’ neck again, breathing raggedly between little kisses. “It’s gonna be all right,” he whispers, reaching round to get his hand on Louis’ dick again, “it’s all right, babe, just let me- just let me—”

But he fucked someone else.

After minutes of trying, kneading and tugging at him, kissing and licking, Harry pulls his hand out of Louis’ pants and gives up. He’s painfully hard against Louis’ bum, and his heart’s pounding into Louis’ back, his face burning hot, nested in the crook of Louis’ neck and Louis can’t get hard, for the first time in eight years, Louis can’t get hard for him.

“I’m sorry,” he says, “I’m just- tired.”

“Yeah,” Harry says breathily, and he sounds like he could cry, “it’s all right. I love you.”

“I- yeah.”

“Can I hold you? Just, can I- like this?”

Louis swallows thickly. He feels good, big warm boy wrapped around him, fingers in the fabric of his shirt, strong arms looping under his own, he feels so lovely. So Harry. But-

Harry fucked someone else.

“Did you hold her too?” Louis hears himself ask, “afterwards? You said you- you slept over at hers after you’d fucked her. Did you hold her all night, then?”

Harry goes stiff around him. A moment passes. Then he slips away with a long sigh.

Harry sleeps on the couch that night.

 

*

 

In the morning, when Louis’ buckling his belt, hurrying out of the bedroom before work, Harry sits in the corner of their couch, soft pink duvet wrapped around him, damp eyes gazing emptily out of the window. His cheeks and lips and nose are the colour of his duvet, his skin so pale and soft Louis wants to kill himself.

He stifles the urge, muttering; “you’re up early.”

“Oh,” Harry says, blinking like snapping himself out of it, and then giving a terrible smile, “hi. Morning.”

“Morning.” Louis’ fiddles with his shirt cuffs, wavering awkwardly in the middle of the room. He’s late for work. “Do you not sleep well on the couch? Because, you know,  you didn’t have to—”

“No, no, it’s fine, I’m good, it’s- fine. Yeah.”

Louis nods.

Harry presses his lips together, thick black lashes lowering as he picks at a lock of his long hair. He looks like a such a beautiful mix, softly down-turned mouth and childish chewing at his lip, strong tatted arms and fingers too big for whatever knot he’s trying to get out of his hair.

That’s his Harry, right there. Has been for the past eight years, minus one night.

“Don’t think I forgive you,” Louis says, slowly walking cross the carpet, “and don’t think I don’t still hate you, because I do,” he stops at the side of the couch, Harry looking up at him, eyes going childishly wide, “and don’t think I won’t hesitate to kick you out of that door and throw everything you fucking own over that balcony if you ever, ever, _ever_ hurt me like this again.”

Harry nods or shakes his head, or some frantic mixture.

“But - and this is all I can give you right now - I want to work things out. With you. This is- this is me trying, Harry. I’m really fucking trying. I just want you to know that. Then you can decide whether you want to leave and go and find someone where it’s easier or new or—”  

“ _No_!” Harry exclaims, “no, I want to- anything you want, Lou. I’ll do it, I just want you.”

Louis reaches down to cup the side of Harry’s face and it’s soft, cold, just like he thought it’d be. “Go and get some proper kip in the bed, would you? You look like you haven’t slept all night.”

“Yeah,” Harry pushes off the couch and gets up, suddenly hovering over Louis, looking down at him, “I just want you. More than anything in the world, I just want you.”

Louis cuts his gaze away, nodding. “Yeah. Okay, I- this isn’t me telling you we’re gonna be all kissy-cuddly again, okay, I can’t-”

“No, it’s all right, I get it. I’m here. I’m just- here, all right? For all of it. I love you.”

“Yeah, I- all right.”

For a second it looks like Harry’s about to dip down and kiss him, but then he stifles himself and steps back. “Okay,” he says, giving a nervous little smile, “have a good day at work.”

“Yeah. And, you too. Get some writing done.”

He nods.

Louis bites back a _call me at lunch._  He never used to ask that and it’s only because he’s feeling afraid. 


	4. Chapter 4

He doesn’t ask about the kid. He just can’t bring himself to.

He does ask about the woman, sometimes, when he’s feeling particularly masochistic or just wants to see that pained grimace Harry makes, wants to see him hurt like he does.

_Was it better with her?_

_Do you think about her, ever, do you think about her when you touch yourself, ever, do you think about her when you’re with me?_

_Did you think about me when you put your cock up someone else, did you tell her about me, did you tell her about my shortcomings, how boring it’d gotten with me, how much more exciting it was with her, while she sucked you off?_

At first, it’s always a _no, Lou, it was terrible, it was shit, it was the worst bloody shag in the history of shags_! After a while, it becomes _I honestly don’t remember anything, I was too drunk_. Eventually, it’s just a sigh, like _here we go again_ , and then silence, slipping away, giving up.

Louis wonders how many days, weeks, months, it’ll be before Harry runs out of patience, runs out of love, and finally stops trying all together. Wonders how much leverage he has, how much pushing away it’ll take. Thinks, if I mention it one more time, if I push him off one more night, if I twist the knife again, will this be the final straw, will this be the moment he throws the towel in the ring and decides _right, this just isn't worth it_.

And, oh, he hates this person he’s becoming. He feels so bitter, so petty, so _small_ , feels like he’s shrinking more every time Harry looks at him.

“‘ve you told’em?” Harry asks him one evening, when they’re in the car, tense silence and tripping feet.

They’re on their way to Stan and Emma’s dinner-thing, because _you’ve opted out of everything this last month, you lazy bastards, you better come or we’ll bring the whole fuckin’ party to you_ , and Louis feels a little like opening the car-door and flinging himself into the open street. It’s been intentional, not seeing anyone. It’s been necessary, for him. Harry’s told him over and over, _the only person who knew was Nick, I swear,_ but Harry also told him for eight years that the only person he wanted was Louis, so.

Even if they really don’t know, he feels like they will the second they walk in. Feels like it sits on him, in his face, in his shoulders, in the way he shifts and shudders at the slightest brush of Harry’s hand.

“Told’em what?” Louis asks, even though he knows. He wants to hear Harry say it, wants to force him to remind himself what he’s done once again. 

“‘bout… stuff.”

Louis glances over at him. He’s got both hands on the wheel, tight enough to twitch, teeth chewing at his chapped lips. “What, that you’re a fucking cheat?” he asks, reveling bitterly in the way Harry flinches, “no, I didn’t tell’em. Did you?”

Harry takes his eyes off the road for a second, shooting Louis an incredulous look. “ _No_!” he exclaims, “why would I- _no_.”

“Hm,” Louis says dryly, while relief rushes over him in waves, “never know with you,” he mutters, eyes back on the road, “you always do as you please, don’t ya?”

It isn’t funny and it isn’t meant to be.

Harry doesn’t laugh either.  “Right,” he says, determined suddenly, “right, okay, I’m gonna turn back around, this is—”

“No, what the fuck are you—”

“Well, we aren’t gonna have any fuckin’ fun anyway, are we?” Harry snaps. He isn’t turning around, but the look in his eyes tells Louis he would. “You don’t wanna go, I don’t wanna go, I-” he cuts himself off, licking his over his lips and then sighing hard, “can’t we just have _one_ night, just _one_ good night, where you don’t talk to me like I’m _fucking_ scum? It’s been a fucking month and we still can’t go _one_ fucking—”

“It’s been two fucking years!” Louis screams through it, making Harry suck in a sharp breath and grab the wheel harder, “no, actually, it’s been two fucking years and nine months and- and you _never_ found a single fucking moment to tell me! I get to spend a month, I get to spend a fucking year, I get to spend as long as I want or you- you can just fuck the fuck off if it’s too much for you—”

Suddenly, Harry makes a sharp side-swing, pulling them up to the curb. At first Louis thinks it’s out of anger and he’s about to yell at him for it, but then he realises; they’re here.

Neither move out of their seat.

“Listen,” Harry says, “I’m not going up there if we’re going to be screaming at each other in front of everybody.”

“Right, cause you prefer sweeping shit under the carpet, innit?”

Harry punches the wheel. “ _Fuck’s_ sake, Louis! How long is this gonna be like this?! I’ve told you—” he scrubs a hand across his face, exasperated, “I’ve told you over and over and over again, I fucked up, if I could go back on it, I would, I so fucking would, but I can’t. I fucked up and I kill myself over it every single day, because the only person I want, the only person I’ve ever really wanted, is sitting right here, in front of me. And- and, I can’t get through to you, I don’t know how to- I don’t know what to do to make it better, Lou, just a little bit better, just a little bit of progress, I don’t know—” his voice breaks, the hoarse young-boyish sound of it hitting Louis right in the chest. 

He doesn’t yell back, just drops his chin and fiddles with his fingers as Harry wipes at his eyes and sniffles, trying to recollect himself.

“I’m so sick of fighting,” he says, voice hardly there, “I’m so, so sick of myself and I’m so, _so_ sick of fighting.”  

“Yeah,” Louis says, because _that_ they don’t need to fight over, “me too.”

Letting out a long breath, maybe letting go of some pride, Louis reaches over and lays his hand on Harry’s thigh, giving it a little squeeze.

Harry lifts his head, eyes wide and sorry. “And- and you’re so lovely, Lou. You have no bloody idea how hard it is to see you thinking anyone could _ever_ measure up, it’s-” he loops his fingers round Louis’ wrist, lifting his hand to his own face and nuzzling into it, “fuck, and to not be able to touch you, ever, it’s—”  

He presses his lips to the inside of Louis’ wrist, setting his skin tingling, his fingertips buzzing to reach out for more, but, fuck, it’s so hard not to think of her. It’s so hard not to think. “Harry—”  

“Fuck, I just miss you so much, baby,” he says, tugging on Louis’ arm as if trying to bring him closer, “I just miss- your skin and these hands, these fingers and your lips, I- I hate myself.” He swallows, Adam’s Apple bopping hard, and looks up into Louis’ eyes again, damp and earnest, “I fucking hate myself.”

Louis unclicks his seat-belt. It’s an awkward transition, from the passenger seat to Harry’s lap, budging around and knees in the gut, but in the end he’s sitting there, spread over Harry’s lap. He doesn’t look him in the eye for long, doesn’t have a chance to, before Harry locks his arms around him and buries into his neck.

Louis sits a bit stiff in it at first, but eventually, he allows himself to melt into Harry’s touch. He picks at the front of Harry’s shirt, then slides his fingers up under it, splaying his hands out on his stomach just to feel his skin. He nuzzles into Harry’s face and stays there, warm soft cheek against his own, breathing in the smell of him and his perfume.

They sit like that, crammed in the driver’s seat of their car, chests lifting softly against each other, heartbeat’s syncing up, for a very long moment.

When they finally disentangle and get out, straighten their clothes and step into Stan and Emma’s lift, there’s a stillness inside Louis’ chest, a sense of calm. It doesn’t make it all better and it doesn’t make it any easier to paste on a smile and laugh at Stan’s terrible jokes, and not want to scream or break down crying when everyone’s arrived and seated and Niall asks from across the table, “so what the fucks’ been up with you two? Been cooped up in shag-land for the past month or what?”

Or when, in the middle of dinner, there’s a ring on the door and Nick and Tony topple in, apologising for their lateness.

When Stan leans into him and mutters; “Wouldn’t normally invite’em, ya know, I don’t know’em that well, but- Ems and I ran into them at the market and we just… you know, why not?” before he looks Louis’ face over and asks, “mate, are you all right, you look like you’ve seen a ghost?” and Louis has to force a smile and say; “no, no, I’m fine.”

But it does help him later on, albeit having thrown a glass of wine or four down himself too, when he’s standing out on balcony, having a quiet cigarette and Nick joins him.

“Bum one?” he asks, as if nothing’s the matter.

Louis studies him for a moment, perplexed. Maybe to him, nothing really is. “Yeah, ehm- yeah, course,” he mutters, fumbling to light him one.

He’d expected Nick to know this too; he knew when it happened, when Louis walked around in oblivious wonderland for two years. Louis just expected that he’d know now too, that Louis’ finally been let in on the secret. If he does, then he’s an even better liar than Harry.

In the car home, Louis asks Harry, “did you not tell Nick about telling me? About fucking that woman?”

“No, course not,” Harry says, like it’s a given.

“Why?”

Harry looks at him for a moment, eyes soft and serious. “Because I know how much it hurt you that he knew,” he says, “and because I’m never going to hurt you like that ever again.”

Louis nods, and then turns back to the road.

He can’t trust it, not right now. He doesn’t know when he ever will. But, it’s something, he supposes. It’s better.

 

*

 

When they reach home that evening, and Harry gives him a small smile and a “d’you need the shower or can I go?”, Louis takes him by the wrist and pulls him in. Harry goes easily, hunching down and wrapping around him, cold nose-tip in Louis’ ear and frosty tips of hair tickling his collarbones.

They stand like that for a while, until Harry’s probably got a terrible back-ache, and then Louis pulls back and tells him; “come to bed tonight. Don’t sleep on the couch.”

Harry nods and gives a hopeful sort of smile, like not wanting to expect anything, but still expecting so much his eyes go twinkly with it.

“Go on, then. Have your shower,” Louis tells him, “I’ll go warm the bed.”

It feels nice; being nice again. It feels a little bit forced too, mostly because it’s been so long, and it feels a little bit like he might wake up tomorrow and want to go back to being bitter and angry and hurt. Because he still is, even right now, smiling genuinely for the first time in a month. It won’t go away just because Harry screamed and cried and said all the right things tonight.

The thing is, Louis _knows_ that, and he can tell by the look in Harry’s eyes that he does too.

Therefore, it feels all right, letting him in. Little by little. Baby-steps.

He peels off his shoes, scolds himself for being too lazy to find a pair of socks earlier, pads his sticky feet into the bedroom and then sees it.

There, on Harry’s nightstand, blue light flashing through the dark room, is his phone.

Louis flicks on the loft-light and then stands at the foot of the bed for a moment, just staring at it. He hasn’t taken Harry up on any of the offers to go through various devices, not yet. He’s been tempted, but then he’s thought; _well, what’ll I find that really changes anything_? He knows Harry knows how to delete stuff off his phone and computer, god knows he’s had enough time. He knows, full well, that the only thing there is to find, the only thing Harry probably hasn’t thought to swipe because it’d seem suspicious if Louis _did_ go and check, is the text-messages between him and the woman.

Louis hasn’t asked about them, hasn’t wanted to see them, hasn’t dared to, but he knows that they’re there.

And now he’s alone, just him and the phone, and there’s a name he’s never heard before lighting up Harry’s display.

_Marie_

So, that’s her name, then. Marie.

Insane for a second, he considers taking her call. Just to put a voice to the name and the images. Just to twist the knife. He thinks better of it, waiting out the call and then staring at the phone for seconds after. Fidgeting. Restless. The shower faucet goes off. He’s only got this moment. He can’t, wont, do this when Harry’s there too. The thought of Harry seeing his expression when he sees whatever there is to see, the thought of Harry knowing he’s seen it, if it’s bad, it’s too much to take on right now.

No, he’ll do this on his own. He’ll go behind Harry’s back about this, just as Harry did him.

He finds their messages, fingers buzzing, heart slowly starting to thump, thump, _thump-thump-thump,_ against his rib-cage. Marie.

They date back to approximately two weeks before Harry came clean. She texted him first.

**Marie - Is this Harry Styles?**

**Harry - yes this is he :) who is this?**

**Marie - Hi. I’m Marie. I don’t know if you remember me, but we met about two years and nine months ago, at a club in East London and you went home with me. I’ve tracked down your number and I really need to speak to you. On the phone.**

Louis scrolls down to see the response, heart pounding so fast he feels dizzy with it.

Harry’s doesn’t reply to her text until three hours later, and then it’s just; **I will call you after ten pm. Do not try to call me.**

After that, their texts are sporadic, short, mostly asking when to call and when definitely _not_ to call. Then, just the night before the Thursday Harry told him the truth, there’s a message with a picture. It’s an official paper. It’s slightly blurred and Louis has to squint to make out the words. It takes him a while before he realises; it’s the DNA-results.

Oh, he feels sick. He should stop, he really should stop, he thinks he might be on the verge of a heart attack, but he just can’t bring himself to stop. He reads on.

After her picture-message, it seems like they’ve spoken on the phone, and then there’s her, the following morning, asking him when he’s going to call her back and him saying **I don’t know, please don’t text or call me until I contact you.**

That’s the last time he’s responded to any of her texts. He hasn’t answered a single one since that evening he confessed it all to Louis. Not even the very last one, received just two days ago;

**I understand your reaction and I understand if you never want to talk to me again, but should you ever want to meet Charlotte, I want you to know that I’m open to it. I don’t want to be the reason she doesn't know her biological dad anymore. - M**

“Charlotte,” he says to himself, just to see if it’s really real, because it doesn’t feel it. It hasn’t felt real, at all, at _any_ point, but now- now she has a name. She has a name, she really exists now, she’s not just this elusive concept that he can push away and forget about. Harry’s got daughter out there. He’s really a father.

“I haven’t answered her calls either.”

Louis jumps, makes a screeching noise and drops the phone right of his hands. He whips around, and there, with a towel round his waist, firm eyes and unsteady lips, stands Harry, watching him.

“I haven’t answered any of her calls either, you can check it yourself, I swear I haven’t,” he says again, pleading and persistent, “I won’t do anything to jeopardize us, Lou. I won’t.”

And that’d all be so right, so perfect, so exactly what he’s supposed to do and say. It would be, if it was just about the woman. But it isn’t.

Now, it’s about the kid.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> btw, there's no meaning behind using the name Charlotte (in regard to Lottie, Louis' sister). It was an accident, I forgot her full name was charlotte, heh...


	5. Chapter 5

For a long while, Louis just sits there, at the foot of their bed, staring at Harry. Harry leans himself against the door, slowly, staring right back at him.

The room’s been completely silent, save for the whirl of the wind outside their bedroom window, for several seconds now, maybe minutes. At first, Harry kept on about the texts, about Marie, and about how he hadn’t so much as looked at her contact name since the night he came clean. Eventually, though, he caught onto the fact that Louis didn’t give a flying fuck about that, not right then anyway, and that he was wasting his breath.

And now, they’re just here. Staring.

“Charlotte,” Louis says again, after god-knows how long, just to see Harry’s reaction. There isn’t much of one. He’s seen the texts, then, he’s grown accustomed to the name. He’s been thinking about the kid, maybe re-reading that same message over and over. “That’s her name, is it? Charlotte.”

A minute passes, maybe more, before Harry finally clears his throat and says, lowly; “yeah. That’s her name.”

Louis leans back on his hands, just to buy himself a second before he forces himself to ask; “do you think about her?”

“What do you mean?”

“The kid,” Louis says, voice awfully still calm in comparison to how he feels on the inside. Maybe he’s still in shock. “Do you think about her?”

There’s a widening of Harry’s eyes, a slight twitch in the crook of his mouth, just before he schools his features and says; “no.”

So. It’s that easy, then; for Harry to lie to him.

He won’t get away with it, though. Not this time. “How come? It’s your kid,” Louis goes on, voice falsely casual. He knows Harry can tell, but he doesn’t really care, probably wants him to. “It’s someone you’ve _made_. She literally wouldn’t _exist_ if you hadn’t fucked your semen up her mother’s—”

“ _Louis_ —”

“No, you listen here, mate,” Louis snaps, dropping the nice-act in a second, “you don’t cut me off, you do not _fucking_ cut me off, you get that?”

Harry doesn’t reply, but he doesn’t interrupt again either, lips pressing together in a thin line.

“You’ve got a fucking _human being_ walking around out there that you’ve _made_ \- you’re a fucking father. You’re a fucking _father_ , Harry!” he pushes off the bed, too angry to sit still, “and- and after all of those times you’ve banged on about how you’re gonna do this and that when you have kids, we’re gonna have this amount children one day and you’re never gonna be the sort of dad my dad was, you honestly mean to—” his voice cracks, but he ignores the sting of embarrassment and finishes, hoarsely, “you _honestly_ meant to stand there, telling me you don’t _ever_ think about the kid you’ve got walking around out there somewhere?”

For a moment, they just stand there, face to face, eyes locked, Harry’s bottom lip wobbling, his chest heaving like he’s about to have a heart attack, Louis panting at him.

“Lou, I can’t let myself.”

It’s so fast, so low, that Louis isn’t sure he catches it right.

“You _what_?”

“I can’t let myself,” Harry breathes, “if I have to choose between you and her, I choose you. And that means I can’t let myself- I can’t let myself think of her.”

“Right.” Louis steps back, wiping a hand across his mouth. “Right. Fuck.”

Maybe it’s supposed to be a relief, knowing just how much Harry’s willing to sacrifice for him. Maybe it’s supposed to make him feel better. But it doesn’t, really. Mostly, it just feels like being suffocated with guilt.

Louis turns and grabs his phone, then pushes past Harry and keeps on walking, even as Harry calls out his name and half-runs after him.

He catches Louis in the hall, when he’s pulling on his coat.

“What are you—”

“I’ve gotta just- I’ve gotta just get out right now,” Louis mutters. Where the fuck did he put his keys?

Kitchen. Right.

He makes to push past Harry again, but this time he’s prepared, this time he grabs Louis by the arm and, when Louis tries to yank it back, he yanks harder. “Louis,” he says, all pleading, needy, “Lou, baby, please, can we sit down and-”

Louis glances at the arm Harry’s clinging onto, like a child wrapped around their mother’s leg, and then up at those big green eyes.

“Babe,” he says, just to get him to let up, “I need a breather, all right?”

It works. Harry lets his arm go, albeit reluctantly still, and then backs up a bit.

“Where are you going?” he asks, stumbling after Louis as he goes and gets the keys, “when will you be back?”

“I don’t know,” he mutters, even though he already knows he’s headed to Eleanor’s again. The less people who know, the less humiliating it’ll be on him when he comes back home in much less time than he intended. “I don’t know. To both questions. I don’t know.”

“I want you to stay,” Harry says, quietly, not like hoping for anything, but rather just making sure Louis knows.

Louis pulls on his trainers, steps out of the door and gets the lift-button, before he wills himself to turn and nod. “I know, Harry. I’ll come back home. I just- I need to think.”

“Yeah. I love you.” His voice has gone frail again, his eyes so young and nervous Louis has to look away.

Finally, the lift opens.

“I’ll be back home in a bit,” he blurts, because he can’t help himself and it’s probably also true, “I’ve just got to think.”

“Okay. I love you.”

“Yeah, I’ll - see you in a bit, Harry.”

 

*

 

The bus-ride to Eleanor’s is terrible, just absolute shit. Since Louis was the one leaving, he didn’t want to take the car, but now he regrets because he’s crammed between a window that looks like a fingerprint-database for melting chocolate-eating children and a sweaty man who looks - and feels - like he’s eaten all of those children. Either Louis’ going to have to come back home tomorrow or he’s going to have to take the bus to work on Monday as well.

He hates himself a bit for the fact that the first feeling that rushes over him at the thought of that is relief; _phew. Now I have an excuse as to why I can’t keep away from him for more than one day_.

He shouldn’t be thinking this way. He should want to be away from Harry, probably, should want to punish him, should hate him, should want to never ever fucking see his face again, but he doesn’t. He’s angry, mostly because he’s hurt. He’s hurt, mostly because he’s still so in love he feels like taking the next bus right back home the second he gets off in front of Eleanor’s building.

He doesn’t, mostly because he hasn’t got enough change for the bus-ride back.  

“Hello?” Eleanor says after he’s rung her door-phone four times total.

She sounds out of breath. Perhaps he should’ve called first. Sometimes he forgets that he’s not the main character in some story where everyone apart from himself just serve as one-dimensional speaking Kleenex’es. 

“Buzz me up, will you,” he hisses anyway, “‘m freezin’ my bollocks off down here.”

“Louis?”

“Eleanor.”

She buzzes him up.

He takes the stairs instead of the lift, because Eleanor’s lift smells funny and it has a mirror in it, just like the one at his and Harry’s flat, and Louis doesn’t need a re-cap of the image he saw in there twenty minutes ago. He reaches Eleanor’s floor, breathless even though he walked so slowly he got overtaken by a senior-citizen with two full grocery bags on each arm, and knocks.

“Hi,” Eleanor says, just as breathless as him.

Her cheeks are flushed pink, her hair’s all over the place, she’s wearing what seems to be a man’s button-down and no trousers.

“Sorry, d’you have company?”

She giggles, and before she has a chance to form a response, someone else comes up behind her. The man is tall, so tall he looks ridiculous in Eleanor’s neat little flat, arms the size of tree-trunks and skin the colour of dark rich mahogany.

“Hi,” he says, in just about the deepest voice Louis’ ever heard in his life, “Idris.”

“Oh, eh- hi, mate,” Louis stutters, slightly befuddled, as the large beast of a man shakes his hand, “Louis.”

He nods.

Eleanor licks her lips and grins knowingly at Louis. “Wanna come in or…? We’re not doing anything.”

“Anymore,” Idris adds with a wink.

Christ.

He gets placed on the couch, legs together and hand cramped around his phone, while Idris hops in the shower and Eleanor finds a pair of trousers.

“Sorry ‘bout that,” she says, when she finally joins him, smug grin smeared across her sex-flushed face, “didn’t mean to be half-naked.”  

“S’all right. S’all right,” Louis insists, rocking uncomfortably in his seat, “suppose that’s what you get for showing up unannounced.”

She lights a cigarette, then hands it to him when he frowns at her and reminds her that she doesn’t smoke.

“Idris does,” she explains, “don’t mind it when he does it in here, so- I don’t know, I’ve sort started to like the smell of smoke now. Horribly stupid, innit? Anyway, second-hand smokin’ doesn’t kill ya, does it?”

The shower cuts off in the other room. Louis’ gaze flicks to the side, just for the fraction of a second, but Eleanor catches it.

She puffs him in the shoulder. “Fit, in’he?”

Louis gives her a look that makes his next words redundant; “ _really_ fucking fit.”

“I knoooow.”

“Where’d you find him?”

She sighs, stretching her arms up behind her head as she rests back, nonchalant. “He just sort of… came to me.”

“ _Came to you_?”

“Yes, Louis, whether you believe it or not, I’m actually considered quite attractive.”

“Oh, don’t say it like that, you make me sound like I’ve got no eyes,” he groans, “course you’re attractive, El, I just—” his mouth snaps shut as the bathroom door suddenly opens and Eleanor’s monster of a man comes sauntering through, starkers. The second he’s disappeared into Eleanor’s bedroom, Louis turns back to her, eyes about to roll out of his skull. “How do you _walk_?”

She throws her head back, laughing.

“I mean, I thought _Harry_ was big, but that’s- that’s just inhumane, Eleanor, what the actual—”

“Stop, stop,” she chokes out, “you’re drizzling ashes on my pillows, Louis, shit-”

“Oh, fuck—”

He shakes off the pillow, then opens a window and flicks the fag out. He stays there for moment, face out in the biting cold night-wind, just letting it slap him until his cheeks go numb.

When he finally pulls himself back in and closes the window, Eleanor isn’t laughing anymore.

“Why are you here, Lou?”

He sighs. It was nice anyway. Forgetting about himself, for a moment. “It’s Harry.”

She doesn’t look surprised. “‘ve you left him for good, then?”

Putting it like that, it sounds so easy. Throwing away eight years of his life, just like that. Leaving the only person he’s ever wanted since he was sixteen, just like that. But, Eleanor doesn’t know what it’s like. That’s why she puts it like that. She has Idris’es. She has flings, here and there, she has her fun and then she ends it, practically and sensibly, when something goes south. She doesn’t know what it’s like to love someone so much you’d rather have them shit on you for the rest of your life than to have anyone else treat you like the king of the world.

“No, I didn’t leave him,” Louis says, “and I probably won’t.”

“Why?”

“Because I love him.” Louis lifts his head and meets her sceptic gaze. “Because I love him and, in spite of what he’s done, I know he loves me too.”

Her mouth scrunches a bit to the side. “Louis, he—”

“Haven’t you ever cheated?”

“Yes, but- but I _didn’t_ love them.”

He pauses. “Right. Right, cause you _never_ love them. You never love any of them so you wouldn’t know, would you?”

Her eyes narrow a little. She doesn’t speak.

“Me loving him doesn’t mean I’m not human. Him loving me doesn’t mean he isn’t human. Doesn’t mean he won’t _ever_ fuck up.”

“You’ve never fucked up like that,” she argues, “you’ve never once cheated on him.”

No. But- “I’ve fucked up in other ways. I’m human. I’ve, uhm- I’ve hit him round the head with a book once. Hard-cover.”

She rolls her eyes.

“No, seriously. It hit him right in the head and he got two stitches. And I’ve- I’ve, ehm- I’ve pushed him into a dresser once - I mean, I only meant to push him away from myself, but still, the dresser knocked over and smashed and Harry had a bruise up his side for, like, three weeks. And- yeah, I accidentally shoved him off a ski-lift when he wasn’t ready and he sprained his wrist. Oh, and I slapped him across the cheek in the middle of Tesco once - he asked me to in fun, but still, I think it hurt a bit.”

“Right, Louis, I get it, you’re a violent fuck, but I’m sure he’s no saint in that regard either—”

“Once, when I was drunk and we’d had a row, I broke up with him over text.”

Finally, he evokes some sort of a reaction in her. “Seriously?”

“Yeah, seriously.” Louis isn’t sure why he’s doing this or who it is he’s trying to convince, but he can’t stop himself; “I literally just texted ‘ _it’s over_ ’. And then, of course, I called him up drunkenly crying and he just hung up and called me back in the morning and I apologised, but still… you know.”

“Right. Okay. Neither of you are perfect, but you love one another, I get the point,” she says, “but then, if you’re so imperfectly perfect together, my question still stands, Lou. Why are you here?”

“Mate, you sound like a shit boyfriend,” Idris says, walking into the room. He’s only wearing briefs. “I’d have left you by now if I were him.”

“ _Idris_!”

Louis scoffs. “You don’t know the half of anything. You wouldn’t be talking like that if you knew what he’s done.”

Idris puts his fine arse down on the armrest by Eleanor’s side and raises his brows at Louis. “Try me.”

“He cheated,” Louis starts. The words are beginning to lose meaning on his tongue now, beginning to lose effect on him. He isn’t sure whether that’s a good or a bad thing. “And he got a woman pregnant. And now, that woman’s contacted him, telling him he can see his kid if he wants. And- just earlier this evening-” he glances over at Eleanor just to make sure she knows he’s talking to her too, “just earlier this evening, he told me he wasn’t going to ever see his kid. And so, I asked him why. And he told me that he’d choose me. Over the kid. If seeing the kid meant he’d lose me, then he’d choose me. And that’s why he won’t ever know his kid. Because of me.”

“Oh fuck, mate. That’s some heavy shit.”

Idris slides down into Eleanor’s lap. She groans loudly, but her eyes don’t flicker away from Louis’ for a second. “How are you feeling, love?”

He shrugs. Exhausted, mostly. Like he’s carrying too much on his shoulders, more than what his body’s built for, _so_ much more than what he’s had the time to prepare himself for. “Torn.”

“Torn? How, like- bloke’s obviously a shithead. End of.”

“Shut up, Idris. Torn how, darling?”

“Like—” Eleanor lays a hand out on his ankle, supportive, and then Idris lays a hand out on his foot, inappropriate. “Like, I don’t want to know this fucking woman. I don’t want to meet her, I don’t want to meet her kid, I don’t- this sounds so shit, but I don’t want him to have a relationship with his kid because by default he’ll have to have a relationship with the mother too and I just- I don’t want that. But then I feel like a shit person, because I can’t- I can’t be the sort of person who keeps a father away from his child. I mean, my own fuckin’ father wasn’t there and I fucking _hated_ him for it, how can I be the reason someone else does the same to their kid?”

They nod.

“Yeah, wow, fuck me sideways,” Idris drawls. “That’s _some_ di-fuckin’-lemma, innit.”

“Idris, go warm the bed and I’ll be in in a minute?”

A grin spreads across Idris’ face. “Yes!” he exclaims, before he hops right off of her lap, slaps Louis, much too hard, on the shoulder and tells him, “it’ll work itself out, mate!”

Eleanor turns back to Louis, her face falling into familiar folds of concern. And- he can’t deal with that right now.

So, before she has a chance to ask him about his feelings one more time, he blurts; “I’m really tired. Can I crash here for the night?”

For a second it looks like she’s going to object, like she wants to extract more information before she lets him off, but then there’s a crash in her bedroom and she groans and snaps out of it. “Bloody hell, can’t leave him alone for one fuckin’ second,” she sighs, pushing off the couch, “and of course you can, love, I’ve got meetings early morning, but there’s food in the fridge.”

“Thanks, El.”

She turns to leave, then stops, biting her lip for a moment. “D’you need me to take your phone again or—”

“No, thanks, I think I’m past that stage.”

 

*

 

He wakes in the morning to the sounds of a crash in the kitchen. He groans, pulls the scratchy woolen comforter he’s wriggled around under all night, over his head and turns over. Seconds later, someone tramples into the living-room, _thump-thump-gadonk_  against the floors. When their weight finally lands on the couch, right at the tips of Louis’ toes, it’s like being bounced off a kid’s trampoline.

“Jesus, fuck!” Louis exclaims, throwing off the comforter.

Idris, who’s got a bowl of cereal in one hand and the remote in the other, just looks at him like he’s acting hysterical out of nowhere. “Wha’?”

“Could you possibly _be_ any louder? It’s like you’re purposely _trying_ to wake me.”

“Mate, you got up to wank like seven times in the night, I don’t think you’ve been sleeping much anyway.”

“ _Piss_.” And cry. “Piss,” Louis hisses, “not wank, you fucking animal.”

He laughs. Turns back to the telly.

Louis glares at him until it gets boring, then thumps back down on the couch and rolls himself into a woolen spring-roll, watching Idris flick through the channels.

In the end, he can’t stifle a groan. “Just pick something already.”

“Who the hell are you anyway?” Idris mumbles around a mouthful of Weetabix.

It isn’t hostile or anything, in fact it sounds so genuinely nice and curious that Louis feels a bit bad for being grumpy with him.

“Eleanor’s ex,” he says, softer.

“Hm,” Idris glances to his side, taking in the look of Louis, morning-eyes and crumbled up tiny in the comforter, “seems she’s had a change of types.”

“Oh, fuck off.”

He laughs. “And, you too. What with, ehm… having a boyfriend and whatnot.”

Right. He buries his face in the couch.

“No, hey, it’s not so bad,” Idris exclaims, ruffling his leg through the comforter, “my brother had a kid with a bird he’d cheated on his bird with. They all survived.”

Louis twists his face out of the couch a little. “How? What’d he do?”

“I mean, he-” Idris pops an entire Weetabix in his mouth in one go, then swallows it whole. “I mean, he just sort of- well, he told the bird, right? I mean, the main bird. The one he was with. He told her and she went all ballistic, you know how it is, but then she got over shit and she told him she’d take him back on one condition.”

“What?” Louis asks, voice dry from still feeling slightly personally attacked at the _went all ballistic_ -part.

“She never wanted him to see his kid - the one he’d had with the side-bird. He could never see the kid. And if she - the main bird - ever found out that he’d done it anyway, she’d leave him for good.”

“Right.” Louis shifts up to sit properly. “Right, wow. And how are they now?”

“They stayed together,” Idris says, “seemed all right. I mean, until she found out about his new side-bird - since he’d lost the other one, so he’d had to get a new one, right? Because, well, you know, he’s a cheat or whatever - and, well, after that, things sort of went south.”  

“Right.” Louis stares at the side of Idris’ face. Idris doesn’t so much as blink. “Right, shit,” Louis says, pushing off the couch, “I’ve gotta go.”

 

*

 

He finds Harry at home, in his favourite lounge-chair, staring at a Word-sheet, void of any words apart from  _chapter 14_  and, underneath,  _he had no fucking idea what to write_. 

He nearly kicks his laptop to the floor when Louis gently taps his shoulder.

“ _Shit_ ,” he exclaims, ripping his headphones out, “didn’t hear you at all.”

“Yeah,” Louis says, watching him fumble to save his immense writings before closing the laptop, “noise cancelling headphones do have a way of… you know… cancelling out the noise.”

Harry gives a breathy chuckle that sounds mostly like gasping for air.

“I didn’t know you were coming home already. I would’ve- are you hungry or—”

“Chill,” Louis says, giving a little grin, “don’t look so shocked. What, are you hiding someone in the bed or—”

The seconds he’s said it, he realises it isn’t funny. Not to him, not to Harry, not at all.

Whatever bit of banter he had in him dissolves, just like the smile on his face.

“Harry,” he says, tone more gravely than he meant for it to be, but a pretty accurate depiction of how he feels on the inside, probably, “I’ve had a bit of a think.”

“Yeah?” he breathes, lip biting, eye widening, breath-hitching- _fuck_.

Louis looks away. _Has_ to, before he says it. “Harry, I can’t do this anymore.”   

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> All right, I just got a comment on the Louis being violent-thing and, looking back, it does seem a bit abusive. But, like, in my mind most of those things were either done in fun or happened by accident (for instance, pushing him off a ski-lift or pushing him into the dresser was a little push which then went way too far)- it was a way of saying that Louis' fucked up too in a way he didn't mean too. 
> 
> Hope it didn't come off differently, woops


	6. Chapter 6

“I don’t want you to leave me.”

Those are the first words uttered since they sat down on either end of the couch, thighs at their stomachs, knees tucked up under their chins, eyes on their feet. 

Louis lifts his gaze a little. Harry’s hands are shaking where they clutch his shins, nails digging into the fabric of his trackies. He lifts his gaze a little higher. Harry’s face is down-turned, long dark hair falling in front of his eyes, lips unsteady as he tries to form his next words.

“But,” he begins, thinly, “if you are then please just- please can you just say it, then?” he tucks his hair behind his ear and looks up, and whatever’s in his eyes, it makes Louis’ chest ache, “can you please just- just not drag it out? I know I’ve fucked up and, it’s like- irreversible, I know I deserve it, but can you just make it fast. Please.”

“Harry,” Louis says, reaching out to lay a hand on his ankle, “I’m not leaving you. That’s not- I don’t think that’s what I want.”

Harry lets out a ragged breath, blinking up at him a little dazedly. “Then what—”  

“I can’t be the guy who keeps a father from his child.”

Harry blinks again. Then he shakes head, frantic. “No, but you’re not, it’s not to do with you, it’s—”

“But it _is_ to do with me, Harry,” Louis cuts through, “it _is_ to do with me. I’m here, I’m yours and since I still am, this is to do with me. You said it yourself last night; you’re choosing me over your kid.”

Harry’s lips drop apart like he’s about to object again, but then Louis forces a small smile and he stifles himself.  

“It’s all right,” Louis says, with all the affection he can muster, “I mean it’s- none of this is fucking all right, but you know that, I know that, but I get why you’d think you have to… that you have to choose me over your kid. But I just don’t think- I don’t think I ever want to be the person who tells someone they have to pick between their kid and me. However much the way you’ve gone about having them  _has_ broken my fuckin’ heart.”

Harry’s head snaps up. “Louis—” 

“S’all right,” Louis cuts through, mostly because he can’t get into that again, not right now, not if he wants to keep half a steady voice, “I mean it isn’t, obviously, but you know that - you’ve- you know what it’s done to me, I- this isn’t about that. We’ve talked about that.”

“We can talk about it more,” Harry insists, laying his hand out on Louis’ where it loops around his own ankle, “babe, we can talk about it all you want. Anything you want.”

Well. What he wants most is to never fucking talk about it again, or to talk about it so little, _think_ about it so little, that maybe one day, he’ll be able to feel like he did before. He’ll be able to feel like it _did_ never happen. But that’s not how you do, when you take the good with the bad and all of that. That’s not what you do, if you’re not the sort of person who can tolerate living a lie.

And sadly, he isn’t.

“Listen, I can’t promise you it won’t suddenly evoke some sort of reaction in me that makes me not want to ever see you again, I can’t, I don’t know that,” Louis says, “but I also can’t ever imagine staying with you if staying with you means there’s a kid out there who never gets to meet their father,” Harry gives a whimpery noise, his fingers twitching round Louis’, so Louis squeezes them back and forces another comforting little smile, “and I _know_ you, Hazzer. Whatever you tell me, whatever you lie about, I _do_ know you still. And you- you haven’t stopped thinking about the kid for one sodding second, have you?”

Harry sucks in a sharp breath and bites into his lip, and that, right there, that’s enough of an answer. That’s enough to reassure him that, even if he’s just made the decision to ruin his own life, ruin their relationship or whatever’s left of it, he’s still made the right one. The only one he’d ever be able to live with.

“Fuck,” Harry says after a while, gaspy almost, “fucking _hell_.”

“What?”

“Just- just fucking _hell_ , I love you,” he says, and he’s shaking his head while he says it, like he just can’t believe Louis, “you’re just- fucking incredible, Lou.”

And- he knows that look. There’s a kiss coming on. A cuddle. A fuck, maybe. Something physical that’s supposed to be so much more than just that.

He pushes off the couch. “Right,” he says, clearing his throat, “I’m gonna go take a shower and then you’re going to leave me alone for a bit and then we’ll talk about stuff tomorrow. I can’t handle any more now.”

It’s a mistake that he turns and checks Harry’s expression. It’s a mistake because it’s all- hurt. Miserable. Disappointment.

“Yeah,” Harry says, shaking his head for something like the thousandth time, his voice gone horribly hoarse, “yeah, course, yeah. I’ll make you a snack.”

“No need, I’ll make something myself, thanks.”

Harry drops his gaze again, along with the crooks of his mouth. “Yeah, I- okay.”

For a moment, Louis considers apologising. Explaining.

 _Sorry I’m just not ready to have you touch me again_.

 _Sorry, I thought I was the other day, and maybe I was, but everything’s just been ripped right open again and I can’t have you in me, on me, around me right now_.

 _Sorry, you fucked someone else and, however much I try, I can’t figure out how to let you fuck me again and have it feel the same as before_.

He doesn’t, though, because Harry already looks seconds from falling apart.

 

*

 

When he comes home from work the following day, Harry has dinner ready. They eat in front of the telly, not talking. Once they’re done, Louis fills the dishwasher and then stands in the kitchen for a minute, just pulling himself together.

“All right,” he says, walking back into the living-room, with new-found strength or, well, at least enough to pull off acting the part.

Harry sits where Louis left him, feet up on the coffee-table, pulling at one of his elastic hair-bands, slowly working up a bruise on the inside of his wrist.

Soon as he hears the tone of Louis’ voice, he flicks off the telly.

“All right,” he parrots, watching Louis anxiously as he slides down across from him.

“We’re gonna call her up together,” Louis says. Harry’s eyes blow wide, so Louis talks again before he has a chance to; “I don’t trust you anymore. Don’t you understand that? If we’re going to do this, I’ve got to know what’s going on, I’m going to have to be there for it. I don’t trust you to tell me. At least not right now.”

Harry nods, slowly. “No, I- I get that, I just… you’re gonna hear her voice, then. How, like—”

“I suppose I’ll just have to suck it up, won’t I?” Louis says, even though he’s so riddledwith anxiety he can feel his heart pound in his throat. “I won’t speak. On the phone. You can just… put it on speaker.”

Harry swallows thickly, gaze rolling down to the outlines of his phone in his jean-pocket. He pulls it out on fumbling fingers, so nervous he even drops it to the floor before he manages to find her contact-name.

His thumb hovers above it for a while. “If, uhm—” he clears his throat, “if she like- asks about meeting up, do you- you’d come with, then?”

Oh. He hadn’t gotten quite that far in his head. Just calling her up, hearing her voice, hearing Harry’s name on her tongue, it seemed too insurmountable for his mind to even consider going further. “Ehm-” but then, the idea of Harry meeting up with her without him, again, that’s- “Yeah. Yeah, I’d definitely come with.”

Harry nods. Then he clears his throat again, so dry time it sounds painful this time. “Uhm, but—”

“But _what_ , Harry?”

“But, like,” he moves his thumb away from the display, tapping at the side of the phone instead, “it’s just like- I haven’t, you know, told her the full story. About you and- yeah. Just so you know.”

A small crease forms between Louis’ brows, the knots in his stomach tightening. “What do you mean?” he asks breathily, “did you lie about being single when you met her? So that she’d sleep with you? Did you fucking—”

“ _No_!” Harry exclaims, eyes snapping up, incredulous, “no, of course I fucking didn’t, Louis, cut me some slack here, would you, I- it wasn’t like that, that wasn’t how we ended up- no, I- she just doesn’t, uhm, know about you.”

“What the fuck are you talking about, she doesn’t—”

“I was really pissing drunk when I, you know—”

“When you fucked her. When you fucked her, Harry.”

He expects Harry to flinch, look like he’s been stabbed right in the chest like he usually does when Louis verbally reminds him, and he does, for a second, but then he snaps out of it, gets this hard look in his face instead. “Yeah,” he says, “when I fucked her, Louis. I was stumbling fuckin’ drunk and we were dancing or, I don’t even know, we _really_ didn’t talk. I left in the morning before she woke and I don’t think we’d exchanged enough words for me to have possibility brought up the fact that I was in a relationship. For all I know, she could’ve been in one too.”

“But you met her again. For the paternity tests.”

He sighs. “Yeah. And I told her I was with someone and that we’d been on a bit of a break when her and I- when we fucked.”

Right. Louis isn’t sure what to feel about that. Angry, maybe. “God,” he says, “every other sentence you spew is a fuckin’ lie, innit?”

“No, it fucking isn’t,” Harry hisses, “I only said that to her because it wasn’t her fucking business what went on with you and I. If I’d said that I’d been with you at the time then she might’ve flipped her shit or asked a shit-load of questions or- I don’t know, gotten so pissed at me that she’d lie about the results. I don’t hardly know her, I didn’t want to risk it.” Louis opens his mouth to snap back at him, but then Harry cuts him off before he has a chance; “- is it really _that_ fucking horrible? Isn’t it better that she doesn’t know, wouldn’t you rather that she doesn’t know about that if she’s going to be part of- stuff.”

 _Our lives_. _Our lives_ , is what he didn’t say.

Louis drops his face into his hands, fingers driving up through his hairline, rubbing at his aching skull. “Okay,” he finally says, lifting his head again, “yeah, okay. Fuck, all right, just call her up, then.”

And, this time he does.

She picks up on the third ring. She doesn’t say _hello_ or _Marie speaking._ She just says _Harry?_ Just like that, a little questioning, a little out of breath, and it hurts, but not as bad as Louis thought it would. For some reason he expected her voice to sound familiar, like the one he made up in his head, the one he uses when he tortures himself with his imaginary playback of her fucking his Harry.

She doesn’t, of course, because he doesn’t fucking know her. She sounds like a woman, a young woman around their age, and that’s about it. Nothing suspicious, nothing out of the ordinary, nothing but a woman. Who fucked his Harry.

The conversation is stunted at first, Harry glancing up at Louis for instructions every other second, unable to string together a single coherent sentence by himself. Eventually, though, he manages to ask her about the kid, and _yes she’s well, she’s like she always was_ , _do you want to meet her sometime?_ And it’s that easy, it’s just saying yes and Harry will have a kid, _really_ have a kid, but he doesn’t say yes, he looks up at Louis again, waiting for the go-ahead. Louis makes eyes at him in response and so he says it _yes, yes I’d like to meet my kid._

It turns out - which Louis never thought or bothered to ask about - that she lives up in Sheffield now, which, three hour drive, fuck, but maybe that’s good, his insecure brain tells him. Maybe it would’ve been absolutely insufferable if she’d lived right round the corner, right within _popping by unannounced once we get comfortable_ -distance, maybe it’s better that, at the very least, Harry will have to schedule every single meet and therefore always run it by Louis first.

And then; “would you like to come up here this weekend?”

Harry takes in a shaky breath and, for a moment, it feels like he’s just sucked all the air out of the room. They just stare at each other.

Then Louis nods.

“Yes,” Harry says, “- yeah, yes, we can, we’ll come up there, then, to, uhm- meet you guys—”

“We?”

Harry’s brows furrow, the slow fucking idiot, and Louis has to snap his fingers at him and point to himself before he gets the point. “Oh, yes, my - me and my partner, Louis. We’ll come up to you. He wants to- I need him with,” he corrects, meeting Louis’ eyes, “I need him with me.”

“All right,” she says, “well, that’s all right- and he’s- he’s in the loop, then? About everything?”

“Yes, he’s in the loop.”

“All right, that’s fine, then,” she pauses for a moment, then says; “but I was thinking you’d - you and your partner - you’d come up here and we could just sit down and talk first, without Charlotte, because- this is big. This is really big and- I can’t have you trampling in here and telling her you’re- all sorts of things we haven’t gone over beforehand, I need to- you know, we need to sit down and just… face-to-face first, you know?”

He nods, eyes still trained on Louis’. Louis nods with. “Yeah, yes, yeah,” he rambles, “yes, just you and I- _us_ first, that’s- that’s definitely better, yeah.”

“Yeah. All right. And I’m not promising anything, okay? I can back out anytime before you’ve actually met her, as can you.”

Louis’ lips part with a click because, who the fuck is she to tell him whether he can or can’t ever meet his own child? But he can’t speak for Harry, he can’t speak at all right now, and Harry just drawls; “yeah, yes, of course”, too fucking frazzled to understand what he’s saying.

The call ends not long after, when there aren’t any more practicalities left which can’t be discussed over text, and everyone just sort of need to breathe.

Then it’s quiet in the flat.

Harry puts the phone away and leans back in the couch, stretches his legs out over Louis’ without worrying whether he’s allowed to like he normally would these days, and then he just sits for a bit, chewing at his thumb-nail. And fuck, he _is_ allowed to. Louis can’t even begin to imagine what’s in his head right now, can’t even begin to form a fucking sentence in his head that wouldn’t feel redundant or insignificant or just plain stupid right now.

But, even as he’s really fucking terrified too, even as he’s still everything he has been for over a month now, he wants to, _needs_ to, push that aside for a bit. He can’t not be there for Harry, not when it’s something this big.

“Hey,” he says, gently pushing Harry’s legs off his own and getting up, before he reaches a hand down for him, “come to bed with me.”

Harry looks so grateful it hurts, eyes welling up before he cuts his gaze away and lets Louis pull him up.

They don’t speak as they undress and teeth-brush and shave and then finally crawl under the covers. They don’t talk about the phone-call, or the kid, or the weekend, or the fact that this is the first time they’ve shared a bed together in fucking forever. 

“It’s going to be all right,” Louis does say, when all the lights are off and Harry’s eyes still stare brightly up at the ceiling. He lays a hand out on Harry’s chest and presses a chaste kiss to his shoulder, and Harry shudders, maybe because he’s already a wreck, maybe because it’s just been too bloody long, “it’s going to be all right, Haz.”

Whether he’s telling the truth or not, he doesn’t know, but he says it again, and again, and again, until Harry falls into a restless sort of sleep. As for himself, he doesn’t sleep much at all that night.


	7. Chapter 7

The drive up to Sheffield feels like the longest of his life.

Harry insists on taking the wheel the entire time, because _I need to be in control of something right now, Lou, or I'll go insane_. Louis lets him, because he’s a better driver anyway and, well, Louis doesn’t quite trust himself not to accidentally-on-purpose drive them into a ditch. With every mile-sign they pass, every minute turning into another on the radio-clock, every lane-shift Harry makes, Louis feels more sick to his stomach.

They’ve got the radio on, just to drown out the silence and the roar of their own thoughts, but when Sam Smith’s _I’m Not The Only One_ comes on it’s just so tragic that it’s almost laughable.

Louis doesn’t laugh, though. He just flicks the radio off and thumps his head back against the window.

He glances over at Harry, just to see his reaction, but he doesn’t seem to have even noticed the music cutting off. His eyes are set firmly on the road, lips pressed together so hard they’ve almost disappeared, knuckles gone white around the wheel.

“Hey,” Louis says, reaching over and prying one hand off of it. When he tangles it up in his own it’s stiff, cramp-like, sweaty in the palm. Louis takes it to rest on his thigh, folding it up in both of his own and squeezing it tight. Harry gives a shaky sigh, then a small smile and lets his hand relax in Louis’.

They stay like that for the rest of the drive, Louis’ hands around Harry’s, holding them closely. It’s as much for himself as it is Harry.

 

*

 

When they reach their destination, a six story tall yellow-bricked building, Louis starts to feel proper carsick. The parking lot’s fenced-up and private and every curb spot’s already been occupied. When Harry circles the building for a third time, Louis’ gone from carsick to majorly claustrophobic.

“Harry, I need to get out, I need to—”

“Well, I can’t find a fuckin’ spot, you’ve gotta wait.”

“No, seriously, you need to- just stop the car, stop the fuckin’ car, Harry, I mean it—”

“All _right_ ,” he stops the car so abruptly that Louis nearly knocks his nose on the dash. “Jump out, then, I’m stopped in the middle of the road!”

Louis fumbles with the belt, fingers gone all rubbery, legs like fucking jelly when he finally gets out and runs to the pavement before the honking car behind them mows him down. He revels in a few breaths of fresh air after having been cramped in that lukewarm car for three hours, and then revels ten times more in one single puff of a cigarette. 

Harry disappears with the car, and Louis feels terribly relieved, getting a few minutes on his own.

Eventually, he re-appears around a corner, arms going in fast choppy movements and a deep line etched between his brows.

“Did you _have_ to smoke right now?” is the first thing he says once within earshot.

Louis gives him a pissy look. “No,” he mutters, flicking it to the ground and stubbing it out, not because Harry told him so, but because he was done anyway, “why do you care?”

“S’just… don’t want us to stink of smoke up there.”

“What, you think she’ll take away your rights to see your own child because your boyfriend smells like smoke?”

Harry just scoffs, pulling his phone out instead of replying. He’s tripping, constantly, and Louis wants to grab him by the arm or bite his shoulder just to ground him, but he doesn’t. He’s been out of the car for a while now, but he still feels nauseated, like he’s on some sort of nightmare-carousel. This feels so unreal.

“Right,” Harry says, looking up from his phone and nodding at an entrance a few feet away, “s’that one. Fifth floor. She’ll buzz us up.”

Louis’ stomach gives a terrible sucking sensation, snapping him out of some daze, and his heart starts to race. “Fuck,” he says, “fuck, maybe I should just stay down here and—”

Harry’s eyes widen a bit, the rest of his face going softer. He lays a hand on Louis’ arm, studying his expression. “The car’s two streets down. I saw a pub right round the corner too, if you’d rather not come up. But, uhm- what do you want?” he steps in a little, his other hand suddenly up at the side of Louis’ face, cupping it, “Really?”

Louis glances over at Marie’s building and then back up at Harry. “No, fuck, I’ve gotta come with. I can’t- I need to come with.”

Harry nods, and Louis can’t tell whether he’s relieved or disappointed.

Before he has a chance to ask or jab at it, Harry dips in for a little kiss. It lands on the side of Louis’ mouth, chaste and nothing, really, but it’s- it’s so much more than what they’ve had in too long. It’s too much, right now.

Louis backs up, wiping at his mouth with the back of his sleeve to stop the teenagery tingles in his skin. “Okay,” he says, “well, lets—”

“Yeah, I- let’s, then.”

Harry offers him gum twice, first in the lift and then again when they’ve rung Marie’s doorbell and are waiting around outside, anxiously shifting weight from foot to foot.

“For fuck’s sake, _no_ ,” Louis hisses, “she won’t care if I smoke, it doesn’t fucking—”

The door gets pulled open. Well, pulled a little bit open. There’s an awkward moment where she’s fiddling with the door-chain, swearing under her breath when it won’t budge, and Harry and Louis don’t know whether to say hello yet or not.

They end up waiting until she finally manages to unleash her door and opens with a breathy, “hii.”  

And— she’s beautiful.

Of course she is. She’s just in a pair of black leather loafers and she’s still only about half an inch short of Harry, _many_ inches taller than Louis. She’s rail-thin, skin that creamy colour you get when you pour too much milk in your coffee, eyes hazel and hair golden-brown and shoulder-length, waving sweetly around her little face. She’s in a white tee and vertically striped high-wasted slacks that basically makes her, like, eighty percent _legs_. 

She smiles, pearly-white, as she shakes Louis’ hand and introduces herself, and all Louis can think is _this can’t be accidental_ and _that’s not someone you randomly pull home when the lights come on at the club_ and _he’s seen her at the other end of the bar, he’s wanted her and then he’s chatted her up, that’s how it really happened, it’s got to have been, just fucking look at her_.

“Louis,” he blurts, when he realises she’s still waiting for him to respond to her, and it comes out awkwardly, a bit like a cough, “‘m Louis.”

“Marie,” she says, for something like the fourth time. “Well, ehm- just, come in, and, eh- you can put your shoes there, coats go up there,” she adds on, after a brief uncomfortable silence, stumbling backwards to let them in.

For a few minutes, the room is quiet again, save for the bustle off getting off trainers and unzipping windbreakers - and, well, Harry hanging his coat. They don’t know this woman well enough for non-uncomfortable silence, but at the same time the purpose of this meet-up feels much too heavy for attempting polite small-talk.

Marie leads them into a cosy little livingroom; canary yellow walls, because why the fuck wouldn’t she have picked the exact colour Harry wanted back at their flat?, brown low-set couches and scented candles burning on the rustic treasure-chest that functions as her coffee-table.

“You can just- uhm, sit there and I’ll- I’ve already put the kettle on, you want tea or coffee or—”

“Tea, please,” Harry says, and Louis just nods when looked at.

She disappears into another room and, the second she does, Harry turns to Louis, a terrible worried look on his face. “You all right?”

“Fine,” Louis lies.

“You sure?”

Louis sighs exasperatedly. “No, I’m not fuckin’ all right, but I don’t want to talk about it right now, we need to focus on—”

“I hope you don’t mind herbal tea, I didn’t have anything else,” Marie says, carrying two quirky tea-mugs in for them. One of them looks as though it might’ve been painted by a two year old. Which, come to think of it, it very well might have.

Louis doesn’t look her in the eye when she hands him his tea, which fucking _stinks_ of weed, just mutters a low _thank you_ and pretends to have a sip.

She sits down in a lounge-chair across from them, first awkwardly rubbing her palms at the arm-rests, then crossing her legs and then uncrossing them again and coughing and then finally saying, quite redundantly; “I’m not quite sure how to go about this.”

Harry puts his tea down. “Me neither,” he admits, and she sighs and nods, her shoulders dropping notably, “I’m not, uhm- I’m not really sure of anything at all right now, to be honest.”

“No.”

They stare at each other for a moment without speaking, and Louis feels more uncomfortable than he ever has, sitting there on the sideline.

“Do you want to see some pictures? Of Charlie?” Marie offers, cutting her gaze away, “I’ve got several albums, I- oh, and Charlie’s what we call her, mostly. Charlotte’s a bit too- well, long.”

“Right,” Harry breathes. “Yeah, okay, I think I would- I would like to see.”

He’s twisted on of his hairbands round his pointer-finger, the tip of it a greyish purple at this point. Louis wants to whack his hand to stop him, but he feels too stiff and stuck in his own body to move.

Marie gets up and walks over to a bookcase in the corner of the room, stuffed with books - because of fucking course, she’s got brains as well as beauty - funny little nicknacks and, at the bottom, a couple of photo-albums. She pulls one out and walks back, slowly flipping through the pages.

“Uhm…” she says, wavering between her lounge-chair and Harry and Louis, “this one’s quite recent. From her second birthday.”

She turns the album around and hands down into Harry’s lap.

The second they get a look at the page, they don’t have to ask which picture she’s referring to.

She’s sat right here in this exact couch, in Marie’s lap, in front of a birthday cake with two candles on, one of her chubby little hands lashing out at the frosting. She’s got the same skin- and eye-colour as Marie. That’s also about it. The rest is just- all Harry. From the dark curly head of hair to the crinkles round the eyes to the dimples to the lips to the nose to the lashes, it’s _all_ Harry. If there was ever a doubt about the legitimacy of the paternity results, that’s all gone now. That’s Harry’s kid.

Harry reaches down to trace a finger over the picture and that’s when Louis realises he’s shaking.

Without thinking, he wraps a hand around his waist and presses his nose into Harry’s shoulder. “It’s all right, H,” he mutters lowly, forgetting that the woman Harry cheated on him with stands right across from them, just for a moment, “you all right?”

“I can, uhm- go in the other room for a bit if you guys need a moment to—”

Before Marie has a chance to finish her sentence, Harry snaps; “why the _fuck_ did you leave it two years?”

She looks startled, lips dropping apart and gaze flicking over to Louis for some sort of help, but of course, there’s none to find, “I, uhm—”

“Two years and nine months, you—” Harry goes on, steady enough to shout, but frail enough to crack, “you- fuck, you’ve kept my kid from me for over two years, you’ve made sure I never even had a _chance_ , a fucking _chance_ , to be part of her life, how the _fuck_ could you—”

“Listen, I- d’you need minute to calm down, I can—”

“A _minute_?!” Harry looks like he’s about to scream, maybe throw the album at her, but then he stifles himself and just shakes his head in complete disbelief instead, “a minute?” he repeats, more of a hiss than a yell this time, “I need the last two fucking years back, I need an explanation, I need, _fuck_ -” he grabs the album, points the pictures at her and taps the birthday-one aggressively, “that’s my fucking kid, right there! She looks _exactly_ like me, that’s _my_ fuckin’ kid, how could you take away any chance for me to even- _fuck_.”   

Harry pants up at her for a few tense seconds, then shakes his head and crumbles in on himself, fingers raking through his hair and digging into his scalp.

Marie signals Louis that she’s going into the kitchen to give them a moment and Louis just nods and wraps his arms around Harry’s hunched-over body.  “Shh, babe,” he mutters with his lips pressed to Harry’s shoulder, along with  _it’s all right, I understand_ and _you take all the time you bloody need_ and _it’s okay, I’m right here with you_ and other things he isn’t sure what he really feels about inside. 

At some point, Harry suddenly sets off the couch and marches into the kitchen.

There’s some more yelling, then utter silence, and then mutters, which eventually develop into a somewhat normal back and forth. Louis considers getting up and going in there several times, hundreds of times, but whatever made him find it impossible to allow Harry to be in a room alone with Marie sort of fell away the second he realised just how _furious_  Harry was with her, and he can’t really see what the hell he’d be doing in there anyway but stand and stare.

No, they need this, he thinks, as he keeps seated on her couch, wringing his hands around and staring at the picture of the child that looks like her and Harry. 

 _I_ need this. I need this moment alone with myself.

 

-

 

It’s an hour before Louis finally decides he’s just going to go down to the car and wait there instead. Maybe pop by that pub on the way and down a pint or three.

“Hi, ehm, I’m just gonna head down to the car,” he says, opening the kitchen door.

Marie’s up on the counter, legs dangling loosely, hands fiddling with the sink-faucet for no apparent reason other than to deal with her nerves. Harry’s leaned back against the wall across from her, thumbs in his pockets.

“No,” he says, when he see’s Louis, “it’s all right, I think we’re—” he glances over at Marie, “I think we’re done for today. I’ll come with you.”

Louis nods.

She walks them to the door and gives a little  _see you_ and then it’s just Harry and Louis again, side by side in the lift.

“I get to meet her tomorrow. If I want,” Harry says, gaze straight ahead. He looks apathetic in the way that you do when you’ve cried or screamed so much you’ve just got nothing left to give, “if we come by around noon or after, the ex-step-dad - that’s who Charlie’s with right now - he’ll have brought her back. And Marie will let me meet her.”

“Okay.” They step out of the lift, and then the building, and begin trotting slowly down the pavement, hands occasionally brushing, but not sparking the need to intertwine, “so, would I, ehm, be allowed to come too or—”

Harry finally looks at him, brows snapping together. “Course you fucking would,” he exclaims, “what, do you think she said you couldn’t come or something?”

Maybe she did. Maybe Harry suggested it. “I don’t know.”

“Course you’re allowed to fucking come. If she’d have said otherwise I’d have told her no fuckin’ way,” Harry says, voice sharp in a way that tells Louis he isn’t half as calmed-down he thought, “no. Unless you don’t want to, you’re coming with.”

“I want to,” Louis replies without hesitation. However semi-all right he found it to give Harry and Marie an hour alone in the kitchen together, he doesn’t think his nerves could take it if he stayed back home or at a hotel-room while they spent a whole day playing happy families, “yeah, I want to come with.”

 

*

 

They check into a cheap hotel ten minutes from Marie’s place, because the thought of driving all the way back home and then back up here in the morning is just fucking ridiculous. There’s an awkward moment when the receptionist asks whether they want a double-bed or single’s, but Louis just can’t handle anymore today, so he cuts it off and asks for a double.

In the lift up to their room, Harry keeps looking at him.

“I really didn’t put much thought into it,” Louis says once they’re finally let out on their floor and he can breathe again, “it was just force of habit, Harry - asking for a double-bed. Don’t- you know,” he glances back at Harry as he swipes the key-card, “don’t think that means- anything.”

Harry shakes his head manically. “Yeah, no, I- I wasn’t thinking anything, I—”

“Good.”

The room is small and square, consisting of a little cube of a bathroom, and, in the main room, a queen size-bed, a desk and a mini-fridge. Louis trails his finger along the desk as he passes it, glancing out at the faint lights of the city of Sheffield. It’s no more than eight pm and he hasn’t eaten anything since they left home hours ago, but he doesn’t feel like going out to eat. Or room-service. Or anything to do with putting something in his stomach at all.

He collapses back on the bed, kicking off his shoes.

“’m showering,” Harry announces, and Louis kills the little voice in his head, telling him he should go and check if he’s all right.

He can’t be the supportive boyfriend, not anymore, it’s enough for today, he’s lying down now, shimmying out of his clothes and it’s all coming back to him, slowly, all the bad and the bitter. How stunning she was. How much the kid looked like Harry, and herself, a beautiful little mix. What an idyllic little family they’d make.

How Harry couldn’t possibly not remember having fucked someone who looks like that.

By the time Harry’s out of the shower again, Louis’ under the covers, face pressed into the pillow, eyes squeezed shut. Harry doesn’t notice how his breathing’s much too fast for being asleep, or maybe he does, but just doesn’t mind not talking. Either way, Louis doesn’t actually sleep for another hour, maybe two.

 

-

 

It’s still dark out when he wakes again, with a little gasp, coming out of some half-bad dream he’s already forgotten the contents of. He’s on his side, back facing Harry, and he doesn’t have to move to see the clock on his nightstand. 1.04 AM.

He should go back to sleep. He _can_  go back to sleep, he thinks, if he just turns his pillow and counts a few sheep and switches sides and-

Harry’s wide awake.

He’s on his back, gaze flicking around the ceiling, feet shifting in the sheets, teeth chewing at his nails, wide awake. And, somehow, without asking, Louis knows he has been all night.

“Harry,” he whispers, and Harry shifts violently and blinks at him, like being yanked out of a thick fog. “You all right?” 

He opens his mouth, probably to say _yes of course, just go back to sleep, I’m fine_ , but then he looks over at Louis and whatever he finds makes him sigh and tell the truth instead; “can’t stop worrying.” He presses the heels of his hands into his eyes and takes a deep unsteady breath in through his nose. “I can’t help worrying, like…”

Instinct taking over right then, Louis lays a hand on his chest. “What, Haz?”

He opens his eyes, a deep crease between his brows that Louis just wants to kiss away. “What if she doesn’t like me? What if, like- I mean, I’m practically this stranger coming into her life and, what if she thinks I’m just scary or weird or—”

“She won’t, Haz.” Louis pries Harry’s hands fully off his face, kissing the knuckles of one of them, “you’re the best with children. Doris and Ernest love you. You’ve got the most animated face I’ve ever seen, little kid’s love that shit.”

Harry gives a breathy chuckle. “But,” he says, gaze rolling up to the ceiling again, crease between the brows deepening terribly, “what if- what if she _does_ like me?”

“What then?”

“What if she _does_ like me, and- and Marie will let me see her and—” he turns back to Louis, eyes going a bit wild, “will I be a full-on father, then? What if I don’t- what if I don’t know how to be or I don’t love her the way I’m supposed to, what if she’s just another cute little kid I feel no particular bond with, I—”

“Harry, stop—” Louis doesn’t realise he’s cutting him off before he does, sharply. The room falls completely silent. “Harry, I can’t—”

 _Be the one to listen to that right now. Be the one that you offload on, not when it’s about this, not yet, not when I’m still not mended enough not to be bitterly selfish inside. Not when it still hurts this much to think about how you went about having this kid_.

He doesn’t say it. He doesn’t say any of it, because he’s trying be- _something_ for Harry, right now, just _anything_ , because this is too fucking big for him not to be, but then—

“I’m sorry.”

Louis looks up.

Harry brushes the side of Louis’ face with his the pad of his thumb. “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t be- loading off on you, I- how are you feeling? What are you thinking?”

For a second, he considers actually answering. Then he notices the deep dark circles under Harry’s eyes, the dents in his lip where he’s been biting much too hard or much too long or probably both. “Come here,” he says instead, reaching round Harry’s waist to pull him in, “come here, kiss me.”

Harry goes easily at first, lips finding Louis’, tongue pushing past his teeth, trembly fingers digging into his jaw. He rolls onto Louis, a steady familiar weight atop of him, in-between his legs and grinds down, and then he stops, once they’re both too hard to fucking stop, really, and lifts up and asks; “you sure you’re okay with this?”

Louis feels his brows drawing together at first, because he isn’t sixteen in a tent on a camping-trip with fifteen minutes to spare before their tent-mate comes back, and Harry behind him, trying not to get too eager too fast. They’ve done this a million times, they know each other’s bodies in and out and, normally, Louis would scold Harry for ever asking something as patronizing as _you sure you’re okay?_

But then, he remembers. He wishes he hadn’t. “Yeah, I’m—” he reaches up and tangles his fingers up in Harry’s hair, wanting him close enough again not to have to deal with those big eyes on him, “just, kiss me some more.”

“Yeah,” Harry drops a smacky little kiss to the side of his mouth, “yeah, I, mhm-” he tries as their kisses grow longer, deeper, and he starts to move his hips again, “I love.. mhm... you, Lou—”

“Love you too,” Louis whispers, because it just slips this time, and of course it’s true, has been ever since the start, “I just- mhm... want you inside me again.”

Harry makes a needy noise at that, snapping his hips down and slipping his hands around, grabbing at as much arse as he can get. “Yeah, fuck,” he hisses, “Lou, I- I miss it so bad, I want it so bad, think about it fuckin’ _constantly_ —”

He lifts up again, and he looks so sincere, so young and stupid with it, that Louis manages to forget what he’s done for a second.

He rolls onto his stomach and Harry mutters something like _fuck, I can't wait_  into the nape of Louis’ neck as he pulls his pants down his arse.

It’s only when Harry’s giving choked pants against the space between his shoulder-blades, lubed-up and trying to get in, that Louis is reminded again. It’s tighter now, harder to get in, harder to open up, it hurts more when Harry finally does manage to pop his cock-head past Louis’ muscle, all for _one_ reason; it’s been too fucking long.

Because he fucked someone else.

His body reacts before he does, slapping back at Harry and trying to wriggle away from under him. “Stop, no, I can’t, Harry, please get off, please, I can’t—”

“What, I—”

Louis manages to elbow him in the gut and he rolls off with a groan.

“I can’t, I’m sorry, I can’t, I thought I could, but I can’t,” he rambles, yanking his pants back up, “I can’t, you’ve fucked it, I can’t, I—”

“It’s okay,” Harry says, voice nothing but a breath, really, “it’s okay, I’m, it’s- I’ve been pressing you for it too much, it’s my fault,” he mutters while Louis buries his face in the pillow and listens to the sticky sounds of him peeling off the condom they’re never going to use, “I don’t ever want us to- want it to be like that, that… like, that you think you _have_ to do anything. I want you to want it. It’s okay.”

“I _do_ want it, I just, I- fuck, I’m sorry.”

“ _Louis_ ,” he says, firmer, “seriously. Stop apologising. You’re makin’ me feel guilty, like I’ve made you think you owe me something. You don’t owe me shit. I just love you, that’s all. And it’s late. Let’s go to sleep.”

“Yeah, I- okay. I’m so—”

“No, you’re not. _I_ am. I’m sorry. Now, let’s sleep. Goodnight.”

“I- yeah. Okay. Goodnight.”

Harry doesn’t try to cuddle him that night and Louis tells himself it’s just because he’s nervous about tomorrow.  


	8. Chapter 8

He wakes, stretches, rolls over and finds Harry in the exact same position he found him in last night; staring at the ceiling. Fidgeting.

“Please,” Louis groans, “tell me you haven’t been awake all night.”

“No, I slept a few hours... I think,” Harry drawls, shifting onto his side to look him in the eye.

It’s a little too close all of a sudden, the memory of last night’s tragic attempt at sex rushing back to him. Louis shifts over to face away from Harry, passing it off as an invitation to spoon instead of what it really is; an excuse not to have to look him in the eye.

Harry does move a little closer, breath touching to the nape of Louis’ neck, two fingers briefly at the dip of his spine, but then he stops, like forcing himself to.

A moment passes, an exasperated little noise, and then the mattress bounces and he’s off to the bathroom.

Louis wills himself not to move and ask him where he’s going, because if he doesn’t, if he just stays right here in his spot, at least he won’t look as rejected on the outside as he feels on the inside.

When the shower goes off, though, he can’t help it.

“Why’re you takin’ another shower, you showered just last night?” he calls out, shuffling out of the sheets.

Harry doesn’t hear him over the running water, so he gets out of bed, feeling a little aggravated suddenly, a little like he doesn’t deserve this fucking silent treatment just because he couldn’t put out last night, or wouldn’t snog this morning, but when he reaches the shower, all of that sort of just- evaporates like water into steam.

Harry’s facing the shower-wall, forehead pressed to the forearm he has steadied up against the tiles, hunched back to Louis. His right hand’s working over-time, muscles twitching all the way up through his arm. He’s not being loud, but he is making sound, muffled little _ah-ah-ungh_ ’s, and, once he gets himself to the finish-line, he can’t hold back, never can, the fucking porn-star, and gives a loud hissing  _fuck-fuck-shit-aah_.

Louis feels a bit offended, even as he’s half-hard in his pants, even as he has absolutely zero right to.

He doesn’t say anything, though. Not until Harry turns, come splattered all over is hand, and sees him, eyes blowing wide like he’s thirteen and forgot to put his headphones in before blasting ’hairy bear breeds moaning bottom-twink’ and his mother’s just barged into the bedroom.

“Nice,” Louis says then, “take the edge off, eh?”

“Yeah, uhm—” he tries to crack his knuckles, because he’s feeling awkward and doesn’t know what to do with his hands, but then he realises that said hands are now _both_ covered in come, and so he can’t stifle a disgusted grimace and hurries to wash them off.

All the while, Louis just stands in the door, watching him. “You didn’t have to sneak in here to do it, you could’ve just asked me,” he mutters. It’s mean and stupid, because they both know that Harry couldn’t have, not with how Louis’ been acting like he’s fucking allergic to him lately, but he can’t help himself. He wants to be mean. Spiteful. “You could’ve asked me for a wank if you needed it so bad.”

“No, it’s fine, I just- took care of it quick,” Harry mutters, head under the shower-head again, gaze somewhere around Louis’ feet.

“Or you could’ve asked me for a blowjob. You said yourself once, I give the sickest head. - Or did you say that to her too? Was it just—”

“Oh, what the _fuck_ are you on about now?”

Louis’ mouth snaps shut. He doesn’t know what the fuck he’s on about. Maybe it’s just his way of handling how horribly fucking anxious he is about today. Harry wanks, Louis asks mean pointless questions about his wanking just to see him squirm. Different folks, different strokes (pun intended).

“Of course it’s fuckin’ better with you, everything’s fuckin’ better with you, Lou, but why do you keep on fucking—” Harry cuts the faucet off and smooths his long hair back from his face. He looks so gorgeous it’s almost impossible to listen to what he’s saying, “Louis, for fuck’s sake, you went into something like a shock-state when I tried to get in you last night. I woke up really fucking nervous and really fucking hard, and you were- you’re not- how am I supposed to know when I’m allowed to touch you or not? Or how much, like- before you go all elbow-in-the-gut on me again?”

Well. “I don’t know.”

He grabs a towel, scrubs his body so hard Louis feels bad for his skin, “- and- and where do you even get off naggin’ me about this right now, when—”  he swallows, shakes his head, “when I’m about to go and meet my kid, I’m so nervous, I’m so pissing scared, Lou—”

Before Louis knows it, he’s across the floor and locking his arms around Harry’s waist, pressing his nose into his neck. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m scared too.”  

It takes less than a second for Harry to melt into his touch, going half-slack in his arms, forehead dropping to his shoulder. “What if she—”

“She won’t, Haz. She won’t.”

 

*

 

They pull up to the curb - thank fuck for a free spot - before Marie’s building just past 1PM, but it feels much later. The sky’s gone dark grey, so covered in clouds you can’t tell one apart from the other, and it’s pissing rain, getting them soaked just from running the six feet from the car to her stairway.

The lift seems to take forever, what with Harry’s constant shifting and fidgeting, and by the time it finally opens to the fifth floor, he looks like he’s about to explode on himself.

“Haz,” Louis says, taking him by the arm and squeezing, “relax. It’ll be all right.”

Harry nods, but doesn’t look the slightest bit convinced.

When Marie opens, looking much too good in a beige slip-dress, woolen cardigan and tights, Harry doesn’t say a word. Not a single word.

Louis takes over; “hi. Hope we’re not too early.”

“No no,” she insists, glancing worriedly over at Harry who seems to be having a stroke, and then back at Louis, pasting on a perfect smile, “Charlie’s just in her bedroom. Come in.”

The mention of the name seems to bring Harry back to life again.

Well, somewhat. “Where’s the loo?”

“Door right by your arm.”

He disappears in there, locks the door after him and leaves Louis alone with Marie. She smiles again, much too prettily, and asks him if he wants a cup of tea and whether he thinks Harry’s okay, and, oh, is he _sure_ he doesn’t want a cup of tea?

“Yes, I’m sure, thanks,” Louis says, following her into the livingroom.

There are no signs of the kid in here, no trace of her even existing, and, for a second Louis deludes himself into thinking - perhaps hoping -, that maybe, just _maybe_ , Marie’s a batshit mental-case who’s made it all up. Then he hears a noise from behind a door just by the bookcase. It isn’t a sentence. It isn’t even really a word. But it’s a noise, high-pitched and squealy.

It’s a two-year-old, calling out for their mum.

“Oh, sorry, that’s Charlie, you can just, uhm- sit wherever- coming, darling, what is iit?” Marie hurries into the kid’s room, not thinking to close the door behind her.

And Louis can’t help but gravitate toward the bit of pink wall and purple carpet he catches behind it. He moves, faster than he realises, and then he’s standing in the doorway, looking into the room.

It looks like any other little girl’s room - albeit a very well-decorated one, with those particular rag-dolls that are meant to look like they’re from the eighteenth century, but cost more than anything else in the entire flat - with a little canopy princess bed and dolls and toys strewn across the floor. It looks like any other little girl’s room, except right there, in the middle of the room, grunting and sobbing because she can’t pull a pair of jeans properly up her doll’s arse, sits Harry’s kid.

She looks so much like him it’s absurd.

“Come here, darling, let me,” Marie says, voice gone all soft and mum-ish, as she takes the doll and helps the kid out, “had a few too many cookies after supper, did she? Gone straight to her bum.”

The kid just grabs the doll out of her hand, puts it down in a male doll’s lap and says something along the lines of; “see ter!”

“Okay then,” Marie says, and then she turns her head, giggling up at Louis, “think that meant ‘sit there’, if I’m not entirely off base.”

Louis forces a dry chuckle. “Right.”

Just then, Marie’s smile fades, her gaze flicking from Louis and over to something behind him.

Louis jumps a little in his skin, feeling Harry’s shoulder brush the back of his own. “Oh.”

“Hi,” Harry rasps.

His cheeks are blotchy red, edges of his hair plastered to his face like he’s been splashing it with water.

Louis gives a little smile, moving aside so Harry can walk into the room. He doesn’t, though. He stays by Louis in the door, breathing heavily through parted lips, staring at the kid.

She hasn’t noticed him yet. She’s arranging her dolls, - if Louis isn’t completely wrong - setting up a runway fashion-show of sorts. It wouldn’t surprise him if the kid’s seen some of those fashion week-things on her mum’s telly; Marie looks stylish in the same way those London-pricks Nick drags Harry around sometimes, do.

Charlie lets a doll in a skimpy orange dress prance down her self-made runway now, but constantly has to stop to push her curly head of hair out of her eyes or spit it out of her mouth.

Marie laughs and asks her why she took off her headband. Charlie replies “ugeh! Ew!” and that’s that.

Harry hiccups. Or sobs. Louis glances at him. “You all right?” he asks softly.

Harry, who hasn’t taken his eyes off the kid since he saw her, doesn’t hear Louis, or just doesn’t have it in him to react. Either way, he moves then, awkward stumbling steps toward the kid.

Marie smiles up at him. “Hey, Charlie,” she says, trying to re-gain the two-year-old’s attention, “Charlie, there’s someone I want you to meet.”

Harry stands stiff, towering above the poor baby, scratching manically at the sides of his own thighs.

She takes one look up at him and bursts out crying.

She throws herself toward her mother, stumbling and falling as she fights to get to her before the big bad man above her does something horrible.

Harry looks like he might cry too. “Should I leave?” he exclaims.

“No, of course n- oh, c’mere, darling, don’t be shy, it’s just a friend I want you to meet,” Marie says, taking the kid into her lap and turning her around so she can look at Harry.

She pats the carpet, beckoning Harry to sit down, and he does, folding his long legs into a pretzel like Marie’s.

The kid still refuses to look at him, staring pointedly at her mother’s foot instead.

“Hi,” Harry says, hardly any voice at all, “I’m Harry.”

Charlie looks back at her mum as if for help and, when all she gets is a smile, she turns back to him and says; “ew!”

He lets out a shaky chuckle, like he’d been holding his breath. “Ew. Yeah. Guess it’s not the coolest name ever, but… uhm.. I guess it’s what I’m stuck with.”

She doesn’t comprehend. Instead, she points at him and scream-giggles; “taaa!”

“Yeah,” he breathes, “taa, indeed.” He stares at her, much too intensely, like he’s afraid that if he blinks, just once, he’ll have tears streaming down his cheeks. “Uhm,” he croaks, “what’s your name?”  

“Huh?”

Marie chuckles. “Can you tell Harry your name? Your name, darling, what’s your name?”

“Chaii,” she mutters, although she still doesn’t look much for giving out personal information to a stranger. “Chaii.”

Harry swallows thickly and then smiles at her. “Charlie, huh?” he manages, “and, uhm… how old are you, Charlie?”

She looks back at her mum for reassurance again at first, but then turns, proudly, puts up three fingers and says; “two!”

Marie laughs, folding one of her fingers down for her. “That’s right, darling. You’re a big girl. Can you show Harry the doll you got for your second birthday?” she suggests, gesturing to the interrupted fashion-show with a skimpily dressed doll now lying dead on the catwalk. “Your favourite one, yeah?”

“Yeah!” she exclaims, moving a pudgy little hand over all the dolls as she looks for the particular one.

She picks it out and begins to explain some specifics about it to Harry, making him laugh and _mhm_  and _huh?,_ while Marie giggles at their lovely child, but Louis doesn’t really listen, not anymore. He very suddenly, very violently, feels a need to get out of here. Feels like he’s on the outside, lurking on a private moment that doesn’t concern him. Harry can’t even take his eyes off of her, doesn’t once look up and over at Louis, because there’s no reason, no need, for Louis to be here.

He finds himself slipping backwards, out of the doorway, then out of the living-room, into his shoes, grabbing his coat, out of her flat. He feels a bit like the first time he left in a hurry, when Harry told him, _two years_ , _two years old because I cheated on you_ , feels sick to his stomach, but it’s worse now, it’s more real. He’s met the woman, he’s seen the kid, the life they had before’s been officially erased and exchanged. It’s never going to be the same again, no matter how long he waits out the pain, stifles himself and hopes he’ll just wake up the next day and feel a little less shit.

Maybe he can handle it, somehow. Maybe he can’t. He doesn’t know.

All he knows right now is he has to get out of here, that he can’t take the lift, too confined, so he runs down the stairs instead. He can’t take the car, Harry’s got the keys, he can’t take the bus, no change, fuck. He ends up hitch-hiking his way to the main station, luckily not getting butchered or raped in the process, buying himself a ticket back home and then jumping on the next train.

When he finally sits in a window-seat, panting, and forces himself to be a grown-up and text Harry where he’s gone, he realises his phone is dead again. Brilliant.


	9. Chapter 9

Soon as he reaches home, he sticks his phone in the charger and starts to pace the floor around it, just waiting for it to light up again.

Once it does, it’s with a roar of beeps and buzzes.

**H - did you leave?**

**H - where are you?**

**H - just tell me ur all right**

**H - where the fuck are you**

He’s also called seven times. Louis takes a deep breath, mustering up the courage, because an angry Harry is never one he looks forward to dealing with, especially not when he knows it’s justified, and calls him back.

“Where the hell are you?”

“At home. Took the train.”

“Right. Okay. Fuck- good. And you’re all right?”

“Yes, I’m fine.”

Long sigh. Then silence. Then; “okay… well. Right, well, good.” He sounds pissed.

“Are you angry with me?”

“No.”

Louis presses his forehead to the wall. “Just tell me if you are, I understand and- look, I’m really sorry I just—”

“Louis. I’ve been stuck in Sheffield for the past three hours because I couldn’t leave before I knew where the hell you were. Now I just really want to get home. I’m gonna get driving now, I’ve gotta go.”

Oh god. “Oh, I’m sorry, shit, Haz, I didn’t think about—”

“Look, I can’t talk right now.”

And before Louis has a chance to blabber on some more, he hangs up.

Right. Fuck.

Louis stands around with his head against the wall for another moment, trying to collect himself and calm down. Then he accepts the fact that it’s impossible, and decides to take all that nervous energy and make himself useful.

The flat isn’t bad. Louis usually only makes a mess in the bedroom, mainly clothes, tea-mugs, the odd half-eaten kebab on a plastic-plate, and Harry never makes a mess of much in the flat except for his writing corner - coffee-cups, gum-wrappers, papers with random brainstorms and notes and doodles strewn around the floor. Lately, his writing corner’s been terribly clean, just like the pages on his Word-sheets. It takes Louis a few minutes to clean up the entire living area, swipe surfaces and adjust cushions and puff up pillows. It takes him no time in the kitchen, because the only “dishes” they have standing out are empty take-out boxes.

It takes him twenty seconds to gather all of his own clothes off the bedroom floor and _throw it in the fuckin’ hamper Louis, it’s right there_ , and then an additional few minutes changing the bedsheets.

Once he’s done with the clean-up, he realises he’s only spent fifteen minutes cleaning in total.

He means to go and cook something up and wrap it in foil and put it in the fridge for Harry. He means to take a shower and not soil the fresh sheets with his dirty pants and stinky pits. He means to stay up until Harry reaches home, face him tonight instead of leaving it till tomorrow, apologise and rub his shoulders and ask him how he’s feeling in a soothingly soft voice.

He means to do all of that, but then he doesn’t. He falls asleep on top of the sheets and doesn’t wake until noon the following day.

 

*

 

He’s lucky it’s a Sunday, because he isn’t sure Harry would’ve woken him in time for work if it weren’t. He’s still in yesterday’s clothes, his neck hurts like fuck from having dozed off on his belly with his head twisted weirdly, and he smells so bad he can actually smell himself.

He sheds the clothes, throws them in the hamper instead of on the floor, for fucking once, has a shower and shave, pulls on a t-shirt and boxers and then finally runs out of things to procrastinate going into the living-room for.

He expected Harry to lie on the couch where he always sleeps lately. He really honestly did, and yet his heart still skips a beat when he walks in and finds him exactly there. He just— doesn’t know what to expect, is all. Hates not knowing what’s to come, especially when what it comes to is Harry.

Harry’s awake, but still under his duvet, lying on his side and watching the morning news. When Louis walks through, he lifts his head to look at him, and he doesn’t look angry, or irritated, or violently distraught. He looks worried, but not the way he always does. He looks it in a different way, worse, but less immediate, more deep-seated, more general and less just about this particular moment.

It’s the worst look Louis’ seen on him in a long time.

“Hey,” he says, “you all right?”

“Yeah,” Harry breathes, “I mean, I- no. No, I,” he shifts to sit up, and Louis wishes he hadn’t, feels trapped by his gaze, suddenly unable to leave without causing a fight, “I just- I- I’m scared. For us, Lou. Aren’t you?”

Louis leans his head back against the wall. “Fuckin’ petrified.”

“Yeah,” Harry says, like he saw it coming, even as he looks a bit like the words punched all the air out of his chest, “I think, uhm…” he drops his gaze and Louis feels so terribly relived by it, “I, uhm… I think that, like- if this is going to ever get… you know, better for you- that maybe, like…” he sighs exasperatedly, “I don’t feel like we talk enough. Or, that- we’ve talked enough at all about- you know, compared to all that’s happened. I don’t feel that- I feel that it’s so, like… big, Lou. That you should’ve- I know you’re feeling or- thinking a lot of stuff, but I don’t know what in particular and I don’t… I don’t know,” he lifts his gaze again, pleading, “I don’t know, like. What goes on in your head.”

No. Sometimes he doesn’t even know himself. Sometimes he’ll think he’s okay because, well, he’s been going to work, he’s managed not to have a complete mental breakdown and confess to all their friends. He doesn’t cry about it, not like he did in the beginning. But then, at other times, when Harry comes too close or Louis mistakenly lets him too close, like the other night in the hotel-room, it feels like it hasn’t even been a day since Harry told him. Like he’s still just as irreparably broken inside and there’s nothing he can do, nothing Harry can do, to ever make it better.

But then that’s just too fucking crushing to seriously consider, because-

“I love you.”

“I love you too,” Harry replies, like the snap of a finger, “like- more than anything, Lou. More than anything, _literally_ , like, but… but… that’s not- I don’t know.”

 _That’s not enough_. He needs chat. He needs banter. He needs sex. He needs Louis to tell him exactly and specifically what to do to make it like it was before again, but that’s just not possible. That’s just not fucking fair.

“I don’t know either,” Louis sighs, “I don’t know what to tell you. You know I’m fucking pissed at you still. You know that- obviously, I was really fucking uncomfortable yesterday and that’s why I took off. Ehm…” he scratches at his arm and shifts weight and shrugs a shoulder. Probably looks like he couldn’t care less, even though it’s all just cover-up, distraction, excuse not to look up and be looked right through. “I don’t know what to tell you. Right now. Apart from that which you already know. And- and that I’m sorry, again, for running out without—”

Harry waves a hand out to cut him off. “No, babe, forget it, I was just worried sick cause you weren’t picking up and- really. Nevermind it.”

 _Nevermind it_. Yeah. Be so nice if that were possible.

Louis takes a little step closer to the couch, then another, and a third. He moves round the armrest across from the one Harry’s leaned back against and then hoists himself up to sit on it. His feet come to rest atop of Harry’s shins through his duvet, and it horrifies him a little how much the slight closeness puts him off. And pulls him in. And puts him off. And- oh, he can’t get out of his fucking head.

“So, so what, ehm- how was- how long’d you spent after I’d—”

“Not long,” Harry says, quickly, because they’re still so sickeningly hypersensitive to anything remotely trust-related, “just- not very long at all, Lou.”

Louis nods. “It’s all right if you did, I mean, you were meeting your kid for the first time,” he mutters. It isn’t untrue, but it still feels like a lie when he says it.

He wonders what they talked about, him and Marie. Whether they put the little one down for a nap and had a cup of tea after. Chatted practically, stuntedly, at first, but then, eventually, couldn’t help but succumb to the immense amount of things they so clearly have in common. Ended up talking for ages. Laughs. Smiles. Prolonged eye-contact. Refreshing old memories.

“You look like you’re about to cry.”

Louis blinks, violently. “No,” he exclaims, and it isn’t a lie, but he still can’t help but check Harry’s expression, just to see if he thinks it is, “course I wasn’t, what the fuck?”

“Nothing the fuck. I just said what it looked like. Honestly, nothing the fuck, mate.”

Louis can’t suppress a snorty chuckle. “Bloody hell,” he sighs, dropping his head to run a hand through his shower-damp hair, “this is too fucking tragic.”

“What?”

Louis lifts his head and replies without thinking; “just realised that’s the first thing I’ve genuinely laughed at from you in over a month.”

“Oh.” Harry doesn’t even attempt to mask his hurt, the way it looks like something, everything, smashes to pieces behind behind his eyes. “Right,” he says, raspily, after a beat, before he gives the most horrible smile, “well, I’d better up my comedy game, then, I guess.”

Louis goes along with it, just because he can’t handle anything else right now. “Yeah, suppose you’ve been slacking off a bit lately.”

“Should look up a few jokes. Have’em ready for a dry moment.”

“Yeah. You should. I’ll buy you a stack of post-it’s in case your memory fails you.”

“Thanks. Maybe one of those clown-noses too. You know, cause everything’s funny if you’re wearing a clown-nose.”

“Mhm, should knock out two of ya front teeth as well. Bit of the London-look, you know? That looks kinda goofy too.”

“Yeah,” Harry chuckles. “Yeah,” he says again after a bit, softer, “you _should_ knock out some of my teeth.”

Louis half-nods from where he’s now got his chin rested in his palm. “I really should.”

Harry gives a sorry little smile. “So why don’t you?”

Cause then you’d have two front-teeth broken and I’d still have a broken heart, so what’s the fucking point?

“Are you making tea?” Louis asks, effectively ending the first bit of banter they’ve managed in over a month. 

First, Harry looks like he doesn’t comprehend. Then he blinks. Then he looks disappointed, but only for a second before he shakes his head and puts on a smile and pushes off the couch. “Already on it.”

He reaches out to ruffle Louis’ hair as he passes him, but stifles himself halfway there and pulls back and walks on. Louis pretends not to notice.

 

  
*

 

They spend the day watching telly, scrunched up in either end of the couch. One show ends and turns into another and a third and before Louis knows it it’s dark out. He doesn’t care. Harry brings snacks and doesn’t force conversation and Louis knows it might not be healthy, but he takes advantage today, takes the liberty of not moving his lazy arse off the couch and not asking Harry a single question about the life-changing experience he had yesterday.

Late evening, though, after pizza and beers, after Harry’s just come out of the shower and keeps bopping around the kitchen, clinking dishes even though they’re all clean, Louis realises he’s waiting to be able to go to sleep. Because Louis is occupying the couch.

So, he decides he’s been selfish enough for today.

“Going to bed,” he announces when Harry walks back in.

Harry nods, stuck wavering between the kitchen and the couch, not wanting to look too eager to finally get to lie down. “All right. Goodnight, then.”

Louis gives a little smile. “Goodnight.”

“Uhm—” Harry puts a hand on Louis’ side as he makes to pass him, light and gentle, but still enough that he stops. “I just wanted to, uhm- if I could hug you goodnight or—”  

Oh _god_. Oh _god_ , they’ve reached a point where he has to ask for permission to fucking hug. This is too horrible.

Louis pulls him in.

There’s a coffee-stain on his t-shirt, right where Louis’ nose touches and he’s hugging too slackly at first, like he’s scared to break Louis, and then, once he gets somewhat comfortable, hugging him so hard you’d think he was trying to strangle the life out of him.

But it’s all right. It’s all right. It’s him and Harry, just right here, just a hug and Harry’s lips briefly at his forehead, it’s all right.

“If you want,” Harry mutters, mouth humming into Louis’ hair, “we could go out, maybe. We could go to that place with those, like- cheese things you liked. That was cosy. We could go and have a dinner or—”

Louis pulls back to look up at him. “You asking me out on a date?”

“If you want,” Harry repeats, looking as though he’s scared he’s done something wrong just by asking, “- just, like, cause… we could talk and just, kind of- it’d be good, wouldn’t it? I’ll pay and- and everything, I’ll- it doesn’t have to be that particular place, you can pick the place or I can plan it and like, surprise you or—”

“Harry.”

“Yeah?”

“It’s fine. Yeah,” Louis says, “yeah, let’s- go out to dinner. That sounds- yeah,” he disentangles from the hug and swipes his fringe in place, “how’s Friday?”

“Friday’s good,” Harry exclaims, “Friday’s perfect.”

“Right. Okay. Then we’ll do Friday.”

“Friday it is.” Harry smiles, a coy little thing that makes Louis want to grab him and kiss it off, maybe bite, but he doesn’t.

“Ace. Friday,” he says, and then he goes to bed alone.

 

*

 

An hour later, he still isn’t sleeping.

Harry turned off the telly about thirty minutes ago and it didn’t make any difference to Louis, even as he’d been passing his time by trying to guess what he was watching by the hums of the voices through the wall.

He feels cold. Wide awake and cold. He can’t stop thinking. About yesterday, standing on the outside, watching Harry meet the kid he’d made with someone else. About today, the look in Harry’s eyes, the first time the thought ever occurred to Louis; _he could leave me_. He might actually, _seriously_ get sick of it and decide to give up, and it might not even be long before that time comes.

And then, the hug they shared just before bed. How it’d felt- less horrible. All right. Good, almost.

So, maybe he should push himself. Not as far as he did in the hotel, but just a little further, just give a little bit more of himself. Maybe he has to.

He gets out of bed.

He pads across the floors and into the livingroom. It’s darkened, nothing but the moon casting stripes of a light over Harry’s sleeping face through the blinds. And, looking at him like that, face in slack resting folds, lips apart and lashes fluttering softly with each breath he takes, Louis sort of forgets that he hates him. Just for a moment.

He removes the distance between them, lifts Harry’s duvet and crawls in with him.

Harry grunts and scrunches his nose, mutters something incomprehensible and then closes his arms around Louis and pulls him into his warm wide chest. Louis traces his finger over his ship-tattoo, dark lines of it clear against his milky skin, even here in the dark. Harry grunts again, shifting his arm away because it probably tickles, and ends up with his mouth rested against Louis’ temple.

And, somehow it’s easier to deal with than anything else has been all day. Somehow the press of Harry’s naked body against his, lips parted over his skin, is all right. Because this Harry, soft, sweet, sleeping Harry that he used to watch sometimes, years ago, when they’d just moved here and he was struggling to publish his first book and Louis always worried whether he wouldn’t make it, whether Louis would still be enough for him if he did, this Harry hasn’t done anything wrong. This Harry, asleep in Louis’ arms, looks just the same as he did the very first time, back when they were just kids.

And maybe it’s fucked up that that’s the only thing that makes being close feel all right. Maybe it is, but it’s also what gets him through the night.


	10. Chapter 10

He wakes with a pair of soft lips at his forehead, and big familiar arms around him, fingers searching his spine. The rain taps at the window behind their telly-stand and there’s rustling going on in the flat upstairs, parents getting ready for work and children running around the floor, making a game of not wanting to put on their shoes. And then there’s right here, inside this flat, naked legs intertwined and Harry’s slow steady breathing through his nostrils, puffing at Louis’ fringe with every exhale.

He isn’t sleeping. If he were, his lips would be parted, slack and dry from mouth-breathing through the night, but they aren’t, they’re soft as anything, pressed to Louis’ skin. 

Louis takes in the look of their legs like this again, milky-white against tan, Harry’s strong thigh atop of his own, caging him in.

He drags a finger along it, just to feel the hairs that are too light to see, and Harry sucks in a surprised little breath though his nose. It’s nothing, really, but it’s enough to jolt Louis back to reality.

“Fuck. Shit, my alarm’s in the other room. Time s’it?”

Harry makes a grunting noise and reaches behind Louis to lift his phone off the coffee-table, his armpit pushing into his face. It smells of sweat, in that slight-bit-too-bad-to-be-sexy way that makes him want to tell Harry to get his stinky pits out of his fucking face while his shameless morning-wood twitches in objection.

“Six am,” Harry says, in a voice much too hoarse for either of their own goods.

“Right.” Louis sighs in relief. “Don’t have to worry ‘bout work for a while, then.”

“No,” Harry agrees, but it still takes him a moment before he closes his arms properly around Louis again, giving him the chance to get out if he wants. When he realises Louis isn’t going to get up, he deflates around him with a long sigh and holds him round the waist, the shoulders, pulls him close and presses his mouth into the crook of his neck and mutters, “no, don’t have to worry.”

The duvet’s slipped down around their knees through the night, much too warm, but now Louis wants it around them again, wants to roll them up together, maybe pull it over their heads and pretend to be in a cave like children, their own little world away from the world.

He settles for tugging it up to his own shoulders.

“Cold?” Harry asks, pulling back to look at him.

“Yeah,” Louis says, giving a little smile, “better now.”

And maybe it’s the eye contact, maybe it’s on the brink of reminding him, taking him back to everything he’d let himself forget for just a moment. Maybe it’s just that obscene mouth. Either way, Louis reaches round his neck then, pulls him close and kisses him.

Harry falls into it easily, but doesn’t get too aggressive, just lets Louis guide the pace of things. His hands glide slowly up and down Louis’ back, fingertips following the bones in his spine and Louis moves his hands through Harry’s hair, breathing it in when a greasy lock falls into his face.

Harry’s hard against Louis’ thigh and Louis’ sure Harry can feel him just as much too, but they don’t do anything about it for while.

When Louis shifts around a little, though, arm getting crampy, his hips fall against Harry’s and their cocks grind together through the fabric of their boxers. Harry gives a whiny little moan against his lips and snaps his hips forward for more.

Before Louis has a chance to give it to him, he pulls out of the kiss, a filthy string of saliva breaking between their mouths and dropping to his chin, still clinging to it as he speaks; “sorry, I didn’t- it doesn’t have to be—” he reaches a hand down his pants and rearranges himself, then throws it frantically through his hair, “like, I wasn’t trying to force anything. I know you’re not ready to be, like—”

“Not when you fuck the mood up like that I’m not.”

It’s unfair and mean, but why the fuck did Harry have to remind him when he was _just_ starting to be able to put it aside for a bit? 

He does feel bad when he see’s the confused frown on Harry’s face though. “What, I—”

So he kisses him until it goes away.

Aside from a startled little noise against Louis’ lips, Harry doesn’t object, hands going to Louis’ face, his back, his lower back, and then, when Louis climbs up to straddle him, his arse.

“Grab me,” Louis says, because he’s being so careful, like Louis’ going to break, and he means well, Louis knows, but all he does is remind him of what he’s trying to escape for a bit. “Grab me properly, grab me how you want.”

Harry does, pulling him up on his crotch, and he opens his mouth to say something again, probably hoarse and filthy, so Louis surges down and kisses him again.

“Fuck, Lou,” Harry still insists on getting out between kisses, “what do you want, anything, I’ll do- what do you want?”

“I don’t want to fuck,” Louis says, because that’s the only thing he’s sure of right now. If not because he isn’t ready to have Harry inside him again yet, then because he isn’t _ever_ ready to go to work with his arse fucked to shambles.

“Okay, well, do you- do you—”

It takes too long, too much eye-contact, too much affection in the way Harry circles his thumbs around Louis’ sacrum, so Louis kisses him quiet again.

This time, Harry doesn’t go pliant in his arms. He gets the idea, grabbing Louis, tonguing roughly into his mouth, wrestling out when he tries to pin his wrists down and then flipping him over and pinning _him_ down instead. Louis moans and locks his legs around him, grabs and pulls at his bum to feel his cock against his own again, but then Harry pulls out of their kiss once again.

“Let me suck you off,” he says, and he looks so much like someone who’s already done it, eyes gone dark, cheeks all flushed, slick red mouth hanging open, that Louis couldn’t tell him no if he wanted to.

Whatever facial expression Louis makes, it’s enough of an answer for Harry, who immediately goes to his wrist to get a hairband.

Louis cocks his head back and swallows thickly, watching him pull his long hair up into a bun.

“Love you,” Harry murmurs, just before he shimmies down and disappears under the duvet, and, when his soft lips wrap around Louis’ cock, a reciprocating response slips out on a ragged moan.

Harry doesn’t waste time or tease, just swallows Louis down as soon as he’s got him in his mouth and then starts sucking him good, the velvety insides of his cheeks brushing up against the sides of his cock, tongue sloppily playing with his cock-head whenever he isn’t so far down his nose touches Louis’ happy trail. Louis throws his head back, eyes falling shut, fingers scratching at the fabric of the couch, desperate for something hold onto.

Normally, he’d keep his eyes open, whack the stupid duvet off and watch Harry’s lips stretch around his cock, thumb at Harry’s cheek where it hollows, maybe grab him by the back of his hair and steer him, tell him what to do, see how far he could push him. Today he doesn’t do that. He lets the feel of Harry’s mouth and his tongue, his shameless fucking tongue, venturing everywhere, cock-head, balls, taint, arse, cock-head again, do all the work.

When he does at some point slit one eye open, the only thing he sees is the duvet and the outline of Harry’s head, bopping up and down beneath it.

He could so easily push it off, just to see if Harry’s eyes are watering, if he’s got saliva drooling down the sides of Louis’ cock, if he looks as fucking filthy as he always does. He could watch him take his come down his throat, unwarned and still not gagging because he’s that fucking good at it, but he doesn’t.

He throws his head back again, closes his eyes and rasps; “comin’—”, and then he does.

Two big hands get pressed forcefully down on his hips as they try to fuck upwards, shoot his load as deep as possible, but Harry still doesn’t gag or choke or gurgle. He takes it, licks it up, sucks at Louis’ cock-head until he’s so done it starts to hurt, and then he moves off, sweat- and spit-slick face dumping down on Louis’ thigh, throat working against it as he swallows.

Louis throws his arms over his eyes, mouth left open, panting embarrassingly hard.

Harry nuzzles into his thigh, presses a sloppy kiss to it and then finally sits up, whacking the duvet off. “I—”

“Don’t speak,” Louis cuts through, arms still covering his eyes, “your voice’ll be too fucking shot and you’ll have to suck me all over again.”

He chuckles, and it’s, just— wrecked.

“Bloody hell, why don’t you suck me off more often?”

“Cause you’re so in love with my cock you forget your own sometimes,” he replies, voice cracking twice through the sentence.

“I _said_ , don’t speak.”

He chuckles again, but obeys the order. He shifts around some and, when Louis finally finds the strength to lift his arms off of his face, he’s on the other end of the couch, slouched back against the armrest, watching Louis as he jerks himself off.

His face looks so fucked Louis almost wants to kiss it better. Or fuck it worse.

He settles for offering his own mouth up. “S’only fair,” he mutters, crawling over.

“Thank you,” Harry breathes, arms going up behind his head as he rests back and waits for Louis to dip down and get to work.

And, he does mean to. He does want to, always wants to get Harry off, there’s nothing hotter than hearing him come, especially when his voice is shot to hell from getting his face fucked. He does get half-way down there, gets a hold of Harry’s dick and steers it for his mouth, but then he stops, hesitates. He isn’t sure why, but there’s just some sort of mental blockage.

He plays it off as tease, smiling slyly up at Harry, but then he actually meets Harry’s eye and everything just sort of- comes back to him.

And then he knows why there’s a blockage.

“Ehm- sorry, can I just, ehm,” he sits up straighter, moves his free hand round Harry’s neck and kisses him again, “s’it okay if I just,” he starts jerking Harry before he finishes the sentence, knowing that’ll get him a yes without hesitation, “just come in my hand, babe.”

“Yeah,” Harry throws his head back again, moaning and fucking up into Louis’ hand as he jerks him like he’d jerk himself in the shower; fast, with one intent only, “fuck yes, Lou, babe, _ah_ , you’re so good, you’re so good, _arh—_ ”

He squeezes his eyes shut as he comes, lips falling slack around his raspy noises.

Louis watches as he tugs him dry, dips in and licks at his wet bottom lip, bites it, maybe a little too hard, but only because he knows he’ll get away with it in the rush of Harry’s orgasm.

“Thank you,” Harry says, when he finally opens his eyes again. He surges forward, landing a sloppy wet kiss right on Louis’ mouth, then one on the side of it, his nose and then a last one on his cheek when Louis turns his face away.

“Thank _you_ ,” Louis says, shimmying back to melt into the armrest across from Harry and finding some tissues under the coffee-table to wipe his hand off with, “jesus, I’d forgotten how great you were at giving head.”

“Yeah,” Harry says, cocky grin coming over his face. It goes as fast as it comes, though, something a bit unsettled taking it’s place instead. He looks down, tucking his dick back in his boxers and then fiddling with the waistband of them. Louis waits, patient with the aftermath of a brilliant blowjob. “Uhm, like—”  it finally comes, “does my dick smell bad or something?”

Louis barks a laugh. “ _What_?”

He lifts his head, eyes stupidly wide. “No, but- just cause, you like- you went down and then, then you- went up again and I… I don’t know, I’m just sorry if it does, I’ll wash better or—”

“Harry. Stop.”  

Harry’s mouth snaps shut.

“It’s not- that’s not, ehm,” Louis fumbles, “that’s not why I didn’t- you smell just fine.”

“Then what?”

Louis sighs. He really can’t do this right now. He should jump in the shower, if he’s even got time for that now, he should get himself something to eat on top of getting sucked empty like that. He shouldn’t start up a whole conversation like this. He’s just given Harry a bit of hope back, a bit of twinkle back in his eyes, he can’t take that away from him just before leaving for an entire day of work. He can’t ruin this for them.

But, then Harry does it for him; “s’it because I cheated? Is it, like- to do with that?”

The sudden directness hits Louis a bit like a punch in the gut. He coughs, then clears his throat and mutters; “why do you think that?”

And he can tell by the way Harry drops his gaze and nods to himself that he wasn’t sure when he asked, but he is now. “Because, maybe- d’you feel, like- that it’s degrading to give me head when I’ve cheated or—”

And of course, he hits the nail on the head on the first try.  

But Louis can’t stand the look in his eyes. They were doing so well.

He pushes off the couch. “I’m gonna be late for work, I’ve gotta hop in the shower now.”

“Wait, fuck, sorry—”

“No, seriously,” he spins around when he feels Harry start to follow him, lifting a hand in warning, “don’t ruin everything, we- this was good. This was good, this was nice, why are you ruining it, let me have this without reminding me, for _fuck’s_ sake—” and just like that, his voice cracks and he’s fucking crying again. “ _Fuck_ you, we were having a nice morning. And don’t  _fucking_  follow me.”

Harry doesn’t, but he’s got eggs on toast and a little shoulder-rub and apologetic smiles ready for Louis when he comes out of the shower.

And just like that, they’re back to scorned little fool and guilt-ridden cheater again.

 

*

 

They get better through the week, though. Affection begins to feel just a little less horrible, even if he does have to close his eyes or kiss Harry every time they look at each other for a bit longer than what’s comfortable.

Harry doesn’t ask about the blowjob-thing again and Louis doesn’t bring it up, at least not to him. When he meets up with Eleanor for lunch at the pub on Wednesday and tells her what happened, she jabs at it, hinting that he’s taking advantage of his ‘superior power’ in the relationship at the moment, getting blowjobs without having to return the favour. He makes her pick up the tab and apologise ten times before he forgives her.

It isn’t about abusing the shift of power in their relationship. Sure, Harry caters to him a little more than he did before, makes his favourite dishes, even the ones he doesn’t like himself, rubs his feet, sucks his dick in the shower, but if Louis were to choose, he’d give anything to go back to being equals. Every time Harry does something he’d never have done before without at least making a teasing little remark about Louis being a lazy bastard, Louis is reminded what he’s done. Why he’s being so overly sweet.

No, it’s not about being superior and taking advantage, that’s not why he won’t get on his knees for Harry.

It’s about feeling so fucking inferior.

What kind of a man is he if he gets cheated on and lied to for two years and then in turn gets on his fucking knees and sucks the guys dick?

He’s not stupid. He knows it doesn’t work like that, logically, that blowjobs aren’t degrading, that it makes no difference, really, whether he gives Harry a quick handjob or gets down and does the job with his mouth instead. He knows that, logically. Doesn’t make any fucking difference in practice, though.

 

*

 

Thursday evening, Harry gives up on trying to keep Friday’s date mysterious and secretive and admits he got reservations at the nice place with the cheese-things Louis liked. It finally gets through his skull that Louis’ incessant nagging and probing at it isn’t just tease or excitement, but a legitimate need to know what’s going to happen. He’s nervous as all hell, is the thing. They’re going to talk, candle-lights and face-to-face conversation, but Louis can’t imagine how they’ll possibly talk about anything without feeling like they’re just tip-toeing around all the shit they don’t want to address.

Harry hasn’t mentioned Marie and Charlie since they got back. Well, one time, Tuesday evening, he barged into the bedroom to show Louis a text from Marie, saying something vague about visiting her sister in London soon and maybe letting him see Charlie again then, and Louis just gave him a thumbs-up and told him to tell her yes if he wanted to and no if he didn’t. Harry told him the following morning that he’d told her yes and that she’d said she’d text him when she knew more, and Louis told Harry _congratulations mate, now stop staring at me like you’re afraid I’m gonna jump out of the fucking window_.

Friday morning, Louis’ nerves start to kick in. Not out of excitement, not like a teenager going on their first date, but rather like having your entire stomach slowly turn around on itself. Like actual fear. How the fuck is he going to share a romantic dinner with Harry when he can’t even look him in the eye for more than two seconds at a time?

Friday noon, during his lunch-hour, Louis gets a call from Harry.

He apologises to the colleagues he’s gone down the pub with, heading into the toilets. “Yeah? What’s going on, did something happen, are you all right?”

“No, yeah, I’m good. I’m good.” The first word in his sentence turns out to be a Freudian slip, because the next thing he says is; “Marie wants to meet up tonight.”

Louis sees his own brows shoot together in the mirror. “What do you mean, she wants you to drive all the way up—”

“No, she’s- she’s already in town. She’s at her sister’s place, apparently. She never told me it was today, I don’t know, but, like- she’s at this thing all day and then they’re driving back up to Sheffield in the morning cause they’ve got a kid’s birthday party or something and—”

“Harry. Point. Get to it, please.”

“Yes, yes, I- uhm… well, so, like… She only has tonight after, like… seven pm to hang out. I mean- I mean, not, like, me hanging out with her, but- so I can spend some time with Charlie. Like, a couple hours.” Louis feels a long sigh fall from his lips. He can’t figure out whether it’s out of relief or disappointment or something else, doesn’t have a chance to try before Harry add’s on; “obviously, I won’t do it, but… I just wanted you to know that, like- we’d been in contact. Just, so there’s nothing I’m keeping from you or, I don’t know.”

Oh. Oh, _fuck_ no. “Bullshit,” Louis says sharply, “you would not be calling me about this in my lunch-hour if it were just to keep me in the loop about you and her, how fucking stupid do you think I am? You’ve told me all this and then added that, of course, you aren’t going to cancel on me, so that you can feel like the good guy when I then tell you that it’s all right, you should go be with your kid. That’s how it is, at least have the fucking balls to admit it.”

The silence that follows on the other end confirms Louis’ suspicions.

“Okay,” Harry finally says, “okay, I’m sorry, you’re right.”

“Yeah.”

“But I _do_ want to go out with you, babe, I’ve been looking forward all week, I just- I’m afraid if I don’t, like- at least in the beginning, you know, with Charlie… and I—” he cuts himself off.

“’And you’ what?”

“Nothing.”

Louis groans. “Harry, spit it the fuck out so I don’t have to worry all through the rest of my workday.”

“I just miss her.” Oh. “I just, I- I really, _really_ , I- I can’t stop thinking about her. And her, her little face and her hands and- she’s got my mum’s smile, I don’t know if you saw and, and, I just can’t—”

“Yeah, okay, fine, I get it,” Louis cuts through, because that’s just too much to dump on his chest in the middle of a work-day, “it’s fine, we’ll reschedule. It’s fine, I don’t care.”

“No, but, Lou, I don’t want you to be—”

“It’s fine, Harry, I don’t care. You’ve got me every night of the week, you only get to see her when her mum lets you. It’s all right. I’ve got to go know.”

He hangs up before he hears Harry’s voice another time. Then he splashes cold water in his face, dabs it off and goes on with his day, knots in his stomach slowly dissolving and leaving him, well, sort of empty. Maybe he _was_ a tiny bit excited for tonight after all. Oh, well.

 

*

 

He battles the internal dilemma of _should I come with even though I never want to put myself in that situation again in my life?_  or _should I let him go alone even though I don’t trust him alone with her?_  through the rest of his workday and hardly gets any work done and gets told off by his boss before he leaves. By the time he gets in the car, drives home during London’s rush hour, throws off his shoes and his coat and dumps himself in the couch, he’s absolutely done for.

“You go on your own,” he tells Harry, “I’ll kick back and watch some telly, I’m knackered.”

Of course, Harry can’t leave it at that. Has to waver at the side of the couch, has to talk things out, ask about fucking feelings. “But, like—”  

“I’m knackered, for fuck’s sake, don’t you trust yourself not to fuck her if I’m not there, is that it?”

Harry’s jaw drops slack. “What—”

“Sorry, I- I really don’t want to come with. You can just- throw me a picture-message of you and the kid, maybe? So I know you are where you say you are.”

It takes more than that to convince Harry he isn’t being lured into a trap, about a million _are you sure, Lou, I can cancel with her if you want_ ’s, but in the end, after a final screamed  _shut the fuck up and get out, Harry!_ , he takes the car-keys and leaves.

Soon as he’s out, Louis regrets letting him go.

He tries pushing it away, turning the telly up a little too high and fetching one too many beers for himself.

Fifteen minutes later, he receives a picture-message from Harry, sitting on a yellow rug beside Charlie. It would’ve been cute if he couldn’t see Marie’s long pins in the background. Every half hour from then on, he receives a new text from Harry, telling him exactly what he’s doing, like _we’re playing with dolls now_ and _my doll just got kicked off the runway for walking too slowly_ and _my other doll just got kicked in the stomach for no apparent reason what so ever_  and other cutesy little anecdotes.

Louis knows the thought process behind it; Harry’s trying to ensure that Louis doesn’t sit at home for one single minute wondering what he’s doing with Marie.

And, he supposes it’s does help, a little bit.

Around nine pm, Harry calls him from the car. “Just got out, I’m about to drive home now,” he says, and he sounds distracted, but not in any bad way. He sounds softened, like he might be smiling to himself, might be feeling all warm and fuzzy inside. He’s falling in love with that kid at a rapid speed and Louis hates himself for how much it terrifies him. “D’you need me to get you anything on the way?”

“Ciggies. And beer, more beer, I drank all the beer.”

Harry chuckles softly. “Okay, babe. I love you.”

“Oh, and ciggies too.”

“Yeah, I heard you the first time.”

 

*

 

“Ciggies and beeeeer,” Harry calls out.

“And ciggies?” Louis yells back.

“Yeah, and beer.”

“And ciggies?”

“Catch.” Harry throws the pack at him and it hits his open palm and ricochets onto the coffee-table beside him. “Oh, and there’s also beer.”

Louis grins at him and grabs the cigarette-pack, heading out onto the balcony.

Five minutes later, when he’s sufficiently suffocated his lungs, he comes back in to find Harry on the couch, in boxers and sweatshirt, beer in hand, hair up in a loose bun, feet up on the coffee-table. Stupid little smile on his lips.

“Was it nice?” Louis asks, carefully covering whatever he’s feeling inside, “your play-date?”

“Yeah,” Harry breathes. Then he smiles up at Louis and beckons for him to come sit. “Let’s not talk about it anymore tonight.”

Not half as good at cover-ups as he thought, then.

He grabs the beer Harry put out for him off the coffee-table and uncaps, smacks his feet up and then realises the remote is lying on the tv-stand. “Fuck, why didn’t you warn me the remote was over there, you _absolute_ brainbleed.”

Harry cackles. “S’five steps away, you lazy bastard.”

“I’ve got my arse melted into the couch now, that remote might as well be on fucking Mars, don’t make no bloody difference.”

Harry laughs. “I love you,” he says, before he gets up and gets the remote.

They stumble across an Australian movie that looks _alright, mate_ and sink into comfortable silence. Harry stretches an arm out behind Louis, hand folding round the back of his neck, rubbing idly. When Louis looks over at him, he’s got his eyes on the telly, but the pull on the crook of his mouth tells Louis he knows he’s being watched. When Louis turns back to the telly, he can feel Harry turn his head to look at him and he knows that he’s obvious too.

Especially when Harry says; “I’ve rescheduled our reservation. We’ll go out tomorrow night instead, yeah? Just you and me, date-night. If you still want to.”

Then, Louis turns again, cheek brushing up against the palm of Harry’s hand. “Yeah, all right,” he says, “but you better bring your best game, mate. I expect to be wooed.”

“Oh, I’ve already printed dirty jokes and pick-up lines onto flash-cards, don’t think I’m not prepared.”

Louis chuckles. “Pick up lines?”

“Mhm. Just you wait,” he says, “you’ll be spreading those legs before we even reach the main course, baby.”

Louis rolls his eyes. They land back on the telly and that’s where they stay. His bum moves, though, little by little, just close enough to cuddle.


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CHAPTER WARNING: Dubious Consent.

He wakes in his own bed the following morning, free space around him, no man clinging to his body like a desperate naked sloth. But he knows he’s not alone in bed. After telly and tea, he and Harry went to bed together last night. They shared a brief few chaste little kisses on the lips, then flicked off the lights and went to sleep. It felt all right. No expectations, no awkward silence, just the two of them, going to bed in the same place.

Louis rolls over and, for a moment, he feels like he’s back to months ago, any random Saturday morning, and he can’t help but smile.

Harry’s propped up against some pillows, no shirt on, hair tangled around his shoulders, one side tucked sweetly behind his ear. He’s got his laptop open, eyes trained on the screen, teeth chewing at his chapped lip as he concentrates.

Louis opens his mouth to ask _whatcha doooin’_ , but then stops himself in fear of sounding suspicious, and instead just murmurs; “morning.”

“Oh,” Harry blinks, closes the tab and coughs, before he finally looks at Louis, “morning.”

And, now he _is_ suspicious. “What the fuck? Why’d you just close the tab like that?”

“Just an e-mail from my editor,” Harry says, in the mumbling way that he does when he’s lying but caught too off guard to put any actual effort into it.

He goes to close the laptop, but Louis sticks a hand in-between and re-opens it.

“Show me, then.”

“Wha’?” 

“Open the tab, I just want to see if you’re lying.”

Harry shoots him an incredulous look, but it’s just over-dramatic enough that Louis knows he’s onto something.

“Open it,” he repeats, “open the tab.”

“Louis—”

“What’s the fucking problem, if you weren’t lying, you’d just open the bloody tab—”

Louis goes to do it himself, but Harry grabs his hand off the touch-pad then. “Wait. Okay, I lied. Sorry.”

Yeah. Course he did. “Nothing new in that, is there? So, what’s it this time? You’ve impregnated someone four years ago?”

Harry gives an exasperated sigh, and drops his head to pinch the bridge of his nose.

While he’s busy doing so, Louis jumps to the touch-pad and opens the tab.

It _is_ an e-mail. It just isn’t from his editor.

_Gathered the best ones I could find. A few might be a bit blurry since I took a picture of a picture in my photo-albums, but most are all right. - Marie_

“It’s just a folder of pictures of Charlie,” Harry says.

Louis’ heart slowly glides back down from where it shot up his throat. “Well,” he says, leaning back into his own pillows, “why’d you lie?”

Harry shrugs a shoulder. “We were doing so well since last night, didn’t wanna spoil it by bringing Charlie up.”

Right. Cause Harry can’t talk about his own kid around the man he spends his life with.

Louis thought he’d been good at hiding how he felt about her. He thought he’d been doing, well, relatively okay, apart from minormishaps (running out and taking the train home without warning five minutes into his first meeting with her, for one). He thought he’d, at the very least, been able to not make Harry feel obligated to hide stuff just to keep the peace.

But of course, he forgets. He forgets that knowing someone well enough to pick out their lies just by the tone of their voice tends to be a two-way street.

“I’m sorry if I’ve seemed like you can’t bring her up at all,” Louis says, and, even as it hurts more than it should to get through his teeth, he adds; “we can look at the pictures together now if you want.”

Harry licks over his lips, studying Louis for a moment. Then he smiles, expression softening up. “Not right now,” he says, pushing the laptop away, “but thank you. And, I didn’t mean to lie, it’s not- it’s not something I do, generally. It was just right now, because of- well, the mood and stuff.”

“Yeah, I get it. It’s, well- it’s not okay, but, you know,” Louis gives a little smile as Harry shuffles closer, “s’not the end of the world.”

Harry comes close enough to kiss, morning-breath and everything, and hums against Louis’ lips before he settles an arm around his waist and pulls him closer. He presses a soft little kiss to Louis’ lips, just testing the waters, and, when Louis doesn’t back up, determined to let this be okay, or at least be something closer to it, he does it again, lips parting at impact.

Louis lets his own be pried apart, let’s Harry guide them into a familiar rhythm while his hands search Louis’ back, his arms, his arse, his thighs.

He’s been hard since he woke, and had resigned himself to just letting it go down by itself when he and Harry started bickering, but now that they’re snogging he gathers might as well get rid of it in a more enjoyable way. He links one leg over Harry’s, humps his thigh for a bit while he rubs Harry through his pants, and when that stops being good enough, he rolls fully onto him, sliding in-between his legs.

Harry gifts a soft little moan against his lips, hands going down to knead and pull at his arse, fastening the pace of Louis’ rutting.

It gets hot quickly, too humpy to kiss, and Louis lets his mouth slide down Harry’s cheek and rest by his ear as he thrusts.

When Harry slips one hand, and then the other, down the back of his pants, he doesn’t think anything of it, too concerned with the feel of Harry’s cock as it grinds against his own. When he gets greedy, pushes the pants down properly and starts to plays with Louis’ cheeks, pulls them apart and digs his fingers into the flesh around his hole, Louis sets up his pace, chasing his orgasm, trying to convey that this is as far as he’s willing to go right now.

Then Harry brushes a finger over his hole. It’s just brief, light, gone in a second, but Louis knows him, knows what he wants when he thinks he’s being sly about it. So he isn’t surprised when, moments later, Harry thumbs at his hole, more persistently. It’s not hard enough to actually try anything, but it’s not going away either, it’s done in the hope that Louis might push back on it and then ask for more. And then more again. And then his cock.

But he doesn’t want to. Not right now. Maybe their last attempt scared him off more than it should have, maybe it’s all just excuses because he’s a frigid shrew, maybe he just doesn’t want to get fucked up the arse by someone who’s just fucked his entire life up the arse too.

“Stop with that shit.”

“Stop what—”   

Louis grabs his wrist, pulls it up and pins it to the mattress by his head. “Don’t touch me there, I’m not in the mood.”

“ _Never_ in the fucking mood.”

It’s so unexpectedly pissy that Louis yanks his head up to frown down at Harry. “ _What_?”

“I-” Harry closes his eyes and shakes his head. “No, sorry,” he sighs, finally, and opens his eyes again, “sorry, babe, it’s- I just miss it, I’m sorry. I got too into it, I thought you were too, I... don’t you ever want that anymore? Or like- is that just, _completely_ off the table now? You used to want it all the time.”

Yeah. They used to do it much more than what was healthy, probably. Everything’s always been good with Harry; kisses, touches, licks, sucks, tugs, anything as long as it’s with him, but nothing beats having Harry inside of him. Nothing ever has. He’s fucked guys before Harry; tall guys, strong guys, guys who were bigger than Harry in every sense of the word, but he’s never been filled as completely by anyone before. It’s sappy as hell, but it’s also true; it’s always been great because it’s always been so much more than physical with them.

Which makes it even harder, now.

“I _do_ want it,” Louis says, because that won’t ever stop being true, “but I don’t, ehm- I think I’ll just end up pushing you off mid-way through or- it just… doesn’t feel—”

Harry swallows hard, and he looks like he’s preparing himself to have his heart smashed to pieces. Or his ego, at best.

Then Louis’ phone goes off.

He groans, even though he’s never gotten the term _saved by the bell_  quite as much as he does in this moment, and rolls over to slap a hand onto his nightstand.

“What, Stan?” he hisses, as Harry folds around him from behind and drives his fingers up through the back of his hair.

“Hi, mate, you’re, like, the third on my list, I’m just quickly calling to ask you and Haz to transfer some money onto my account.”

Ehm. “I beg your pardon?”

Stan chuckles. “Well, no, sorry, I forgot to tell you what for, hah. Right, so we’ve decided last minute to order a surprise-stripper for tonight. You know, give him a bit of a show, make him go all red and flustered, it’ll be hysterical. I’ve got a few more peops left to call round to and when we’ve gotten all our yes’es, I’ll now exactly how much you and Haz’ll have to chip in with,” he stops, just to catch his breath, and then asks; “you’re in, right?”

Louis stares blankly at the wall across from him. He’s about as far away from being _in_ as one could possibly be. “Mate, I don’t even know which ‘him’ you keep referring t- _oh_.” And then memory snaps back into place. “Oh, _fuck_.”

Harry nuzzles into his shoulder. “What is it, babe?”

“Right, are you guys chipping in or what cause I’m running on a tight schedule here and I have to call Niall and Jen after yous and then—”

“Yeah yeah, it’s fine, just text us the amount and we’ll transfer,” Louis says, just to shut him up. Then he hangs up and says; “we forgot about Zayn’s fucking birthday.”

 

*

 

While Harry regretfully cancels tonight’s restaurant-reservations, Louis pops to the shops and finds a perfume that smells sort of like something Zayn might maybe not ever wear and then gets it store-wrapped all nice and fancy.

Every year since he became the official Last Single Friend Left, Zayn’s insisted on _remindin’ all ya sexless telly-addicts what it’s like to be free_. This involves a massive party at his tiny studio-flat, loads of artsy “introverts” who turn into aggressively loud social justice warriors after two shots of whisky, heaps of twinks that can’t for the life of them remember how or where they met Zayn (hint hint, Grindr) and then, of course, a tiny minority of people that Louis actually knows.

For a self-proclaimed loner who often moans about how he _just can’t fucking stand people, ya know?_ and _only ever socialise to remind myself how much I fuckin’ love being on my own_ , Zayn has a hell of a lot of party-people at his beck-and-call.  

“It’s the booze,” Harry pants, when they’re hiking up the ten-thousands raggedy stair-steps in Zayn’s lift-less stairway, “he always has shit-loads of booze.”

They’re around three floors down from Zayn’s flat and they can already hear the music pounding through the walls, the howls and the tramples and the groans of frustrated neighbours.

“I don’t think it’s the booze,” Louis says, stopping to catch his breath as they round the fourth floor, “it’s… hhh… it’s the view.”

“Could be right,” Harry breathes, pushing him in the back to keep him going, “too bad we’re going to die from exhaustion before we reach up there.”

Louis gives a laugh so breathy it probably doesn’t sound anything remotely like a laugh. “Look on the... hhh... bright side,” he manages, “at least the stripper will be gleaming with sweat when he arrives.”

“And that’s good or—”

“Yeah, s’like a... hhh... like a natural alternative to baby oil. Sexy as hell.”

Harry smacks his bum from where he’s fallen a few steps behind. “ _You’re_ sexy as hell.”

“Oh, quit trying to win cheap points with me, you sleazy—”

“Laaaaaaaaads!”  

Louis leans over the stair-railing and looks up to find Niall doing the same, just downwards, from two stories up. “Waaaaay!” Louis yells, for no reason at all. He hears Harry give a snorty laugh behind him, but ignores it. “Nialleeeeer!”

“Lou-eeeh! Get your fat arse up here already, Stan’s about to give his speech!”

Christ. “Come on,” Louis starts taking two steps at a time, “come on, Harry, hurry up!”

“Shut up, I’m carrying the present _and_ all the booze _and_ I’ve got your massive arse in my face, I—”

“Shut _up_!”

Louis rounds the seventh floor several steps before Harry. He takes one step into the flat and gets sucked into the whirlpool of people.

Well, in reality it probably doesn’t happen quite like that. First, he gets hauled into a windowsill-seat with Niall and Jennie, handed a large cup of something that makes him wince and frown by default every time he takes a sip and then watches Stan’s ‘speech’, which, by true tradition, turns into a vicious comedy-roast. Either it’s the funniest thing ever, which it is, or Louis’ just drinking much too fast - which he is.

Either way, by the time the speech is over, he’s got a stomach-ache from laughing so hard and an empty cup. He gets a re-fill, dances for a bit with some girl he doesn’t know, gets himself drunk in a game of beer-pong and then finally tracks down Zayn to congratulate him. He looks around for Harry, but can’t see him anywhere, and apologises about not knowing where the present is.

“It’s cool, mate, I’m just happy you’re here,” Zayn says. He must be drunk too.

“Course, I’m happy to be here. So, how’s it feel being seventy?”

“I don’t know, how _does_ it feel?”

“Haaaa,” Louis exclaims dryly, and pats (slaps) him on the arm, “s’funny. Mr. Funny-man, you. Funny McFunson.”

Zayn rolls his eyes and then pulls him in for a tight hug. He really _is_ drunk.

A twink comes up to Zayn to ask him something and Zayn pulls him awkwardly aside instead of introducing him, probably because he can’t remember the poor kid’s name. Louis goes on the hunt for Harry again, not wanting to monitor his time or anything, but just, well- wanting to ask where he put their booze. Before he has a chance to look the tiny flat through, though, he gets pulled aside by Emma, who joins him up with Niall and Stan.

“Guys,” Stan says, and he’s still got whipped cream on his face from one of the skits he did earlier, “stripper’s here in five minutes. We can’t have him buzzing the door-phone and risk Zayn knowing he’s on his way up. Who’s going down to take him up?”

Well. “You are,” Louis says, “you’re the one who hired him, doesn’t it sort of go without a say?”

“Yes. Yes it does, Louis. But you’re forgetting one thing,” Stan says, landing an heavy hand on Louis’ shoulder and looking at him seriously, “I’m fat as fuck and I am _not_ going all the way up and down those stairs again.”

Louis shakes him off. “Oh, for crying out loud, Stan.” Then he sighs. “Fuck it, fine. I’ll do it.”

“Sick!” Stan slaps him in the back, mostly to steer him in the direction of the door, “off you go!”

“What’s he look like?”

“Copper.”

“Oh, that’s nice. That’s very nice. Something original, for once.”

“Just leave already!”

The stripper is late. Either that or Stan’s gotten the time wrong. Highly likely the latter. Louis stands in the freezing stairway, tripping and swearing under his breath for so long that, when a face finally pops up right in front of the glass-door, black clothes camouflaging itself in the dark, he jumps and screams.

The stripper is still laughing when Louis manages to compose himself enough to open the door for him. “Bit of a shock, huh?”

“Well, you looked like a floating head, can you blame me?” Louis says, waiting for him to walk first so he can get a sly look at his money’s worth. It’s not too bad. Tall, wide, brown hair, big arms. Not too bad at all, for a stripping copper.

Louis chats drunkenly about everything and anything as they make their way up the stairs and the stripper _hm_ ’s and laughs at the right times. By the time they make their way up to the seventh floor, Louis’ so out of breath from walking and talking that he thinks he might faint.

“You should probably go in before me,” the stripper says.

“Oh, right... hhhh... yeah, and, ehm... hhhh... then you’ll just—”

The stripper chuckles. “What do you say you go in now, and then I wait five minutes and come in?”

“All right. All right. Yeah, all right. And don’t forget to come in, because... hhh... because we paid for a stripper.”

He laughs. “I’ll try to remember.”

Louis sneaks back into the party then. He squeezes his way through flocks of twinks and turquoise-haired women, looking for Zayn or Stan or just anyone involved in the stripper-ordeal.

Before he does, one of them finds him. “Where’s he at?” Niall asks, yanking him in by the arm.

“Just outside. He’ll be in in five minutes.”

Stan joins them, eyes wide with excitement. “This is gonna be epiiiiic,” he says, rubbing his hands together, “wait, fuck- Ems! Emma! Babe!”

“What?”

“Get your phone out, we’ve got to have it on tape. And, hey, where the fuck is Zayn?”

“There,” Louis says, already having made sure to pin him down.

He’s sitting on a desk in the corner of the room, chatting to Jennie. The second he looks away, Jennie sends them a thumbs-up and an evil-nose-scrunched-chin-down-he doesn’t know what’s coming-muhaha-look. Perfect.

“That’s my girl,” Niall says. “By the way, did I ever tell you guys she once had her picture in the Playboy-magazi—”

“Yes, Niall, every _single_ time you ever say anything, you manage to cram in that vital piece of—”

The front door gets slammed open.

Stan cuts the music via Zayn’s iPhone, which he must’ve nicked out of his back-pocket. But well, as they say, all is fair in love and stripping.

“Police! It’s the police!” the stripper yells, bursting into the main room, “I’m afraid I’m going to have to bust up this party.”

The flat falls dead silent. Louis glances over at Zayn. He looks like he’s forgotten how to breathe.

“We’ve had a couple noise complaints,” the stripper says, both hands on his hips, wide shoulders pushed back, “who owns this place?”

All eyes slowly glide to Zayn. He swallows thickly and raises a hand. “Ehm, eh—”

“You.” The stripper nods, then raises his brows at Zayn and beckons him closer, “you’re the birthday boy?”

“Eh, yeah,” Zayn croaks, stumbling toward the man, eyes flicking around all his friends, mortified, “that’s me.”

“Well, birthday boy,” the stripper glances over Zayn’s shoulder to where Stan stands ready to flick on the music, “it looks as though I’m going to have to teach you a lesson.”

And then, Pony by Ginuwine blasts through the flat and the stripper rips off his shirt.

From then on, it just gets better and better. Niall runs up from behind, pushing a chair into the back of Zayn’s knees so he falls onto it. The stripper gets in his lap and distracts him with his oiled-up six pack, and, before Zayn knows it, he’s hand-cuffed to the chair and has a police-hat on his head. The stripper goes all in; lap-grinding, worming around on the floor, sticking his tight little thong-clad arse directly into Zayn’s face, rubbing his big bulge even more directly into Zayn’s face, simulating a blowjob on his baton, all of the good stuff.

When the show finally comes to an end, Zayn has a full-grown man in his lap, a horrified/hornified look on his face and a chub on.

And well, Louis shares one of the three in common with him.

“That was fucking incredible!” he yells, while adjusting his dick in his jeans, “that was sick, did you see the look on his face, priceless!” he claps his hands together, laughing, “loved it!”

“Wicked,” Stan agrees, “and Louis, fix your boner.”

Zayn, who’s finally wriggled himself out of the stripper’s baby-oiled limbs, comes sauntering over to them, hands in his pockets, face like a tomato. “Fuck you guys.”

Louis throws an arm around his shoulders, half-hugging him. “Aaw, you were good sport about it, though.”

“Yeah, looked properly into it at one point, was just about to ask whether you two needed a room,” Niall chimes in.

“Fuck off,” Zayn mutters, but his heart isn’t in it, nor his concentration. His gaze is across the room where the stripper is packing up his gear, “but, damn…”

Louis nods, and they both go quiet as the stripper leans down to pick up his baton. “Amen, soldier.”

“ _I’d_ fuck him,” Stan agrees.

“Me too,” Emma says.

“Heey.”

“Oh come on, look at that arse, it’s like carved outta fuckin’ spray-tanned marble.”

Louis laughs, and then turns to go find Harry. Make sure he isn’t sneaking off to wank or something stupid.

Before he gets a chance to have a look around, though, Zayn grabs him by the arm and pulls him aside.

“Mate, ehm… hope this isn’t too much to ask, but eh…” he glances suggestively over at the stripper, who’s now sadly pulling his trousers back on, “could you maybe convince him to stay? You know, stay for the party.”

Louis looks back at Zayn, and then down, just to see if he’s still got a chub on. He hasn’t from the looks of things, but when Louis looks up again, his cheeks are still beautifully crimson. “Aaaw, aren’t you cuuute.”

“Fuck off. Are you gonna do it or what?”

“Why don’t _you_ do it? You’re the birthday boy, he can’t say no to you.”

Zayn shakes his head. “I don’t wanna come off desperate. Also, I don’t have your people-skills. Just, like, talk him into staying for a bit and then I’ll swoop in once it’s settled.”

Louis sighs. “All right, all right, but only cause it’s your birthday.”

“Thank you! - oh, and could you also, maybe, like, casually slide into conversation whether he’s a top or a bottom? Like, just casually?”

Louis tells him no and heads for the stripper.

He’s just buttoning his policeman-shirt back up when Louis approaches. “Hey,” he says, two of his six packs now tragically buttoned away, “like the show?”

“It was- yeah, yeah, it was- interesting,” Louis says, thumbs in his pockets, tipping back on the balls on his feet, “you know, I liked the thing you did with the, ehm- the floor where you kind of pretzeled in on yourself, that was- that was ace. Yeah.”

Stripper laughs. And reaches a hand out for Louis to shake. “I’m Eli.”

“Louis,” Louis says, shaking his hand firmly, “say, Eli, are you onto another gig after this or are you just—”

“No, no, I’m off for the night.”

Louis smiles. “Oh, all right, so just… just going home and kicking it with the girlfriend or…?”

“Nope. No girlfriend.”

Nice. So good so far. “So no, no nothing, no boyfriend or…?”

“No, no boyfriend.” He studies Louis for a moment, then adds, with a little grin; “and, if you’re asking, it _would_ be a boyfriend. If it was.”

“Aah.” Louis nods, smile widening across his face, “ah, yes, well- well, that’s- that’s great.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.” He casts a quick glance over his shoulder, to where Zayn is still anxiously watching them. “So, ehm- Eli, was it?”

“Eli, yeah. And Louis, was—”

“So, Eli, why don’t you stick around for a bit? You know, have a couple drinks with us. We’d love to get to know you. Several of us would.”

Eli cocks his head back a little. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

“All right. Cool. Yeah. I’d love to.”

And, _hole in one_. Or something. Anyway, great. “Brilliant!” Louis almost high-fives him. Luckily, he doesn’t. “Great, now, you just, ehm- you just stay here and then I’ll, ehm- I’ll go fetch you a drink, how’s that?”

“Great, yeah. Thanks..”

Louis spins on his heel, but then stops for a second, turning halfway back. “Oh, and- just, ehm, purely for research purposes - if you were to, say, find yourself a bunk bed to sleep in for the night, would you be more naturally inclined to, ehm… take the top or the bottom one? Just, reserach, you know.”

The stripper laughs. “I’d say I’m pretty versatile.”

“So you’re a bottom?”

He laughs again. “No, I’m- I seriously _am_ pretty.. you know, versatile. So. Well, mostly top, but—”

“Top. Okay. Well then, anyway, how about that drink?”

Louis turns again, making a beeline for the kitchen. On his way, he throws Zayn a thumbs-up and mouths out _go for it_.

On the way to the kitchen, he gets attacked by Niall and Stan, who want in on the stripper-gossip and drink-making, and hauls them along. Once they reach the kitchen, he sort of forgets what he came here for.

He sort of drops his stomach.

It’s nothing, really. It would’ve been nothing at all a couple months ago. Right now, it feels like so much he wants to scream.

Alone in the little kitchen, stand Harry and some blonde. Well, they don’t actually _stand_ , they sit, both up on the kitchen counter, feet dangling freely, a bottle of Jack Daniels that Louis paid for between them. She isn’t drinking any of it, and that’s lucky for her, because otherwise Louis might’ve yanked the glass out of her hand and splashed the contents into her face.

He’s over-reacting. They’re just chatting. They’re at a party, drunkenly chatting. It’s nothing.

Excepts she’s got her hand on his knee. He’s smiling politely, but Harry smiling politely is the equivalent of a normal person smiling like they want to tear your fucking clothes off. She’s jabbering on, laughing much too much at herself, and he’s- well, he isn’t pushing her away. He isn’t pushing her away.

“Eeeeeey,” Stan howls obliviously, pushing past Louis and into the room, “Hazzer, did ya see the stripper?”

“Yeah, I did, he was awesome.”

Harry chuckles at Stan’s drunken swaying and reciprocates a sloppy handshake while his gaze flicks over to Louis. Then the blonde pulls him in by the shoulder and says something that Louis can’t hear over Niall chatting away into his other ear, and the rush of his own blood, pumping hot through his veins. She jumps off the counter and heads out after that, giving a sweet little smile as she pushes past Louis, as if she wasn’t just groping his boyfriend’s thigh. Knee. Whatever.

Harry looks at Louis again. Louis looks away from him, pointedly, and steers right for the whiskey. He grabs a glass off the counter, not bothering to check for lipstick-stains or spit in the bottom, and pours to the brim.

A big hand settles around the nape of his neck. “Easy, babe, you’re gonna kill yourself if you don’t—”

“Give a fuck.” Louis shakes him off and has a huge gulp, viciously burning his own throat to numbness. He has another two after that, then burps loudly and slams the glass down and wipes his mouth, “I don’t give a _fuck_.”

Harry frowns a little, looking him over. “Something the matter?”

“He’s just jelly cause Zayn’s getting with the sexy stripper!” Stan yells, just before Niall bursts into manic fits of laughter.

“You guys are drunk,” Harry drawls.

He grins back at Louis, but Louis isn’t biting. He turns again, grabs his glass and finishes the last of the contents.

“Louis.” Harry’s voice is sharper this time, less patient. “Louis, look at me. _Look_ at me.”

Finally, he does. “ _What_?”

“What’s going on? Are you cross?”

“No, I’m not cross.” Louis swallows down the whiskey that’s trying to push it’s way back up his throat, and shakes his head, “I’m not cross, why would I be cross?”

Harry stares at him for another few seconds, like debating whether or not the fight is worth it. In the end, he just sighs and turns to Niall to ask how work is doing.

“Fuck you,” Louis says then.

Harry snaps back to attention. “What?”

“Fuck you, what were you doing alone in here with that fucking blonde?”

“I…” Harry’s lips fall apart, but he isn’t able to form a proper sentence, apparently stunned to fucking silence.

“I _asked_ , what the fuck were you doing sitting alone in here with her all closey?”

Stan and Niall have gone quiet now too and Louis can feel their eyes on him, but he frankly doesn’t give a fuck. They can watch all they want.

Watch Harry try to string a fucking sentence together. “I, what, what are you—”

“That fucking woman, Harry!” Louis yells, and he thinks it’s louder than he intended, but he isn’t really sure because things are starting to go a bit fuzzy, “that fucking woman who had her hand up your fucking thigh just now, what were you doing in here with her?”

Harry, who’s still gaping like an idiot, glances over at Niall and Stan, and then back at Louis, incredulously. Like _how could you?_ Like, _how could you, in front our friends, how could you embarrass me like that?_

It only adds fuel to the fire. “Why were you sat alone in here with her, _answer_ me, Harry, fucking _answer_ me—”

“I don’t fucking know, I was in here, she came in here, what do you want me to say?!” Harry snaps.

That seems to set off a reaction in the two other lads, who suddenly can’t get out of the room fast enough.

Louis waits till they’re gone, then asks; “did you think she was fit?”

“Oh, _god._ ” Harry drops his face into his hands, rubbing at it hard before he lifts it and says; “no, I didn’t think she was fit.”

Louis snorts. “Fuckin’ lie, that is,” he picks up the whiskey-bottle, begins to screw off the lid, “you thought she was fit, I know you, you thought she was so _fucking_ hot you—”

“Yes! Yes, all right, you got me!” Harry throws his arms out, like giving up, then jumps off the counter and comes toward Louis, like going in for a fight, “the woman was hot, so I thought she was hot. I have eyes in my head, shoot me.” He yanks the bottle out of Louis’ hands, slams it down on the counter and then throws a hand through his hair, “I was in the kitchen, I was gonna get you a drink to get two fucking seconds in your company cause you’ve been avoiding me since the second we walked in that door tonight, but then she came in and cornered me and started asking about my book, what do you want me to do? Tell her to shut the fuck up so I can leave?”

Well. Yes. But Louis doesn’t say that. “Haven’t been avoiding you all night, what the fuck kind of bullshit is that?”

Harry waves a hand in his face. “Don’t.”

“Don’t what?”

“Don’t lie just to feel like you’re winning the argument, that’s fucking pathetic.”

Wow. That’s just- “oh, _fuck_ you. _Fuck_ you.”

Harry gives a low chuckle. “Except you won’t anymore, isn’t it?”  

Louis’ jaw falls slack. The second the words slip from Harry’s lips, he looks like he regrets it. And he should. “Fuck you. Fuck off, get out of my face, I fuck- fuck you for using that, that’s- _fuck_ you, I…” he stumbles a little, heading for the bottle and he realises now that he’s had more than he can handle, but it doesn’t stop him.

Harry does, though, sliding the bottle away and grabbing him by the shoulders. “Sorry,” he says firmly, “sorry, that was out of line. But, come on, you’re drunk as hell, let’s go home.”

“Let go of me,” Louis hisses, because he hates Harry, he fucking _hates_ him for making him like this, so insecure, so hypersensitive, so _fucking_ pathetic, “let go of me, let go of me, let go, you fucking- I hate you!” he doesn’t realise he’s screaming until the door gets pulled open and Zayn pops his head in to check on them. Still, he just can’t stop himself. “I hate you!” he screams, as Harry stumbles backwards and then pushes past him, marching out of the room.

He follows Harry through the livingroom, the entrance-hall, out into the stairway. “Where the fuck are you going?!”

Harry stops, just for a second, lifting a hand at him. His stature is calm, but the look in his eyes is something— quite far from that. “You can talk all the shit to me you want at home, Louis, but I won’t stand there like a fucking clown while you scream at me in front of everybody, that’s where I draw the line. I did nothing wrong, I—”

“She had her fucking hand up your thigh, you weren’t pushing her off, you’d have fucked her if you’d been drunk and I hadn’t walked in, I _know_ you would’ve, you’d have fucked her and never told me for two years or forever or fucking—”

His voice gets louder and louder the longer he goes on, and when he reaches screaming-territory again, Harry spins on his heel.

Louis grips the railing, leaning over it to scream at him all the way down, _fuck you, I hate you!_ and _go fuck fucking Marie!_ and he just keeps going, even as he feels like he’s scrubbing himself down the throat with sandpaper, even as he’s losing all his voice, even as he knows, in his rational mind, that he’s going so fucking far over the line, he just keeps going. He’s so fucking furious he wants to cry all the time.

In the end, when Harry’s been out of the stairway for minutes, he runs out of fuel. He slumps over the railing for a bit, just hanging there. Hating himself.

He knows he’s going to have to apologise tomorrow, he thinks briefly, as he makes his way back in through the party. He knows he should’ve stopped before he even got to the whiskey, knows he was already drunker than he tends to allow himself to become. He drank too much and he lost his temper and he’ll have to apologise tomorrow, but tomorrow isn’t now, and now, he’s picking up the whiskey and downing it in gulps, straight from the mouth of it.

Things go a bit blurry after that.

One moment, he’s on the dancefloor, with hipsters and artists and twinks and Niall at one point, and the next he’s in the loo, puking his guts out.

He empties as much of his stomach-contents as he needs to for the time being into the toilet-bowl, then grips the sink and pulls himself up. He splashes cold water in his face, dips down and drinks directly from the faucet, slaps his cheeks and then laughs at his fuzzy-eyed reflection, then thinks he might puke again, but finds that it’s a false alarm and then finally leaves the loo.

He stumbles down the hall, heading back toward the main room, but when he opens the door at the end of the hall, he realises he’s gone the wrong way and he’s standing in Zayn’s bedroom.

“What are you doing?” someone calls out from behind him. “You all right?”

Louis turns to find the stripper coming toward him, half-dancing and swaying, plastic-cup of something boozey in his hand that’s constantly about about the spill over.

“Yeah, I’m all right, just got my directions fumbled up, I think,” he says, stumbling back out of the bedroom.

Stripper laughs. He stops right in front of Louis, and Louis can’t tell how close they’re standing, if it’s too close for normal or not, but he can smell the guy’s sweat and his baby-oil like it’s inches from his nose. His shirts been re-unbuttoned, almost all the way down.

“What are you drinking?” Louis hears himself ask.

Stripper looks down into his drink, then back up at Louis, grinning. He shrugs a shoulder in lieu of an answer and downs the rest of it. Then he burps.

“Sexy,” Louis snorts-laughs.

“Yeah?” He steps closer, close enough that Louis has to cock his head back against the wall. “You think so?”

“Yeah.”

The next thing that happens happens so fast that it feels like it’s all in one movement. Stripper throws his cup away, pushes Louis up against the wall and then kisses him. It’s forceful but sloppy at the same time, hands all over the place and not leaving a second to breathe, or think. By the time Louis finally finds half a mind to stop the guy, he’s been backed into the bedroom.

“Fuck, no. Fuck, I, I’ve got a boyfriend, I—”

The bloke has him in an iron grip around the waist, too tight to get away, or at least that’s what Louis tells himself when he gets kissed again and doesn’t fight it. Kisses back.

He’s up against the door one second, effectively slamming it shut, and then he’s being thrown onto the bed, pulling the guy down with him. He’s ripping the guys clothes off, then blabbering for a moment about how they shouldn’t do this, and then letting himself be rutted hard.

He’s getting flipped over, gripping the bars of the heard-board, and then he’s got the guy pushing up into him, slamming himself in, again and again, landing stinging slaps to his arse, biting at his shoulders, licking up his back, pulling at his hair, yanking his head back and spewing filthy insults into his ear. He’s being jerked off into the sheets one second, and then he’s being jerked off into the next.

And then he’s falling into the sheets. Panting into the pillow. Slowly sobering up.

Fuck.


	12. Chapter 12

He lies for a while, lips slack around the edge of the pillow, panting. Waits for the room to stop spinning. Listens to the sounds of the man he just fucked putting his clothes back on. He isn’t sure how long he lies there, arse half in the air, fucking _pathetic_ , too drunk to cope with what he’s just done.

Around the time the bloke says; “bet your boyfriend can’t fuck you like that”, Louis decides to get up.

He’s still fiddling with his belt-buckle when he stumbles back out into the hall, walls blurry, floors shifting around beneath his feet. He manages to get himself through the main room, music still blasting, drunksters still dancing, and then slip out of the flat without anyone noticing or stopping him to say goodbye. He trips twice on his way down the stairs, sweaty palms sliding on the railing, knee bruising on the second fall. It hurts less than it probably should, because he’s still pissed out of his mind.

Somehow, he survives the stairs and then pushes open the doors and steps out into the dark night, biting cold wind scolding him for not bringing a jacket.

He begins to make his way toward the main road, he thinks, in the hopes of somehow miraculously hailing himself a taxi. He feels like he might be sick again. His knee’s beginning to hurt. His arse too. Fuck, he might be sick.

Then he sees something at the end of the street. A car parked. _Their_ car.

In what feels like the fraction of a second, he’s made his way across the street, up to the side of the driver’s seat, and plasters himself to the car just to avoid melting into the asphalt. Harry’s in the driver’s seat, head titled back, mouth hanging open, asleep.

Harry sat out here since he left, waiting for Louis to come down.

Oh fuck, he’s going to be sick.

He must’ve made a noise when he launched his entire body-weight onto the car-window, because Harry’s eyes blink open. He jumps in his seat at first, then realises it’s Louis outside, pushes a McDonald’s bag off of his lap and unbuckles his belt. Louis stumbles and nearly falls onto his sore arse when Harry pushes the door open.

He doesn’t say anything, doesn’t swear or tell Louis off, doesn’t smile either, just grabs him round the waist and buckles him into the passenger-seat.

“Harry, I—”

Harry closes the door in his face.

When he slides into the drivers-seat again, he speaks before Louis can; “bag in the back.”

“Wha’?”

He reaches back himself, grabbing the McDonald’s-bag and puts in Louis’ lap. “If you have to puke,” he says, before he pulls off the curb and settles into his seat with a long sigh.

“Did you sit out here since we… since you—”

“Yeah,” Harry says, and Louis can’t hear whether he’s angry or tired or a mixture of both, “there’s another bag in the back. There’s a big coke and a cheeseburger and some chips. You might wanna get something down your stomach.”

“Oh, I,” Louis swallows down a sudden sob that jumps up his throat. Or maybe it’s just puke again. “Thanks, Harry, you didn’t have to—”

“It’s fine. It’s fine.” He shifts his hands on the wheel, sticky-sounding as he peels them off the leather and re-adjusts his grip, “so, ehm… did Zayn pull the stripper or—”

Louis pukes into the bag.  

 

*

 

They make it home in one piece. Harry keeps an arm around Louis’ shoulders until they step inside the flat, and then lets him take care of himself. He disappears to put the McDonald’s away, and Louis stands alone in the hall for a moment, just him and his fuzzy head. He can’t even comprehend what’s just happened. A couple hours ago, he was screaming at Harry for letting some woman put her hand on his knee and now he’s standing here, in their home, with a sore-fucked arse and a bag of his own puke in his hands.

He rids the puke-bag, splashes his face with water, slaps his face, slaps his reflection, slaps the sink in violent frustration. None of it helps.

In the bedroom, he finds Harry again, which isn’t a surprise since he slept here last night too, but he still nearly jumps out of his skin.

“Hey,” he says, stumbling for the foot of the bed and lying back on it as he begins to pull off his jeans.

A hand slips into his hair, just gently feeling at it. Louis resists the urge to shake it off just because it makes his stomach turn, knowing what he’s done. What Harry doesn’t know he’s done.

When he’s finally managed to kick off his jeans and yank off his shirt, he sits up, and then bends in on himself to pull at his own hair. It hurts, at his scalp, because it’s been yanked so fucking hard just earlier, so he stops. Bites his lip and clutches his stomach.

The mattress dips after a minute or so, and Harry rounds the bed, sits beside him and then leans down to press a kiss to his clammy back. Louis can’t bring himself to lift his head from his own knees, the fucking coward that he is. Or maybe it’s just his stomach, warning him not to. Harry drags a finger down is spine, then draws little circles round his sacrum and his hips and says things like _aw baby_ and  _you shouldn’t drink so much, bubz, look at yourself_.

Then his fingers still at Louis’ right hip. “You’ve got a bruise,” he says, matter-of-factly, “on your hip.”

Fuck. “Oh, uhm, I—”  Louis twists to check, and yes, there, reddish and thumb-size, is a bruise on his hip. “I must’ve knocked into something.”

Harry circles the bruise once more with his thumb. “Yeah,” he says, finally, and then sighs and changes the subject; “you were really screaming at me earlier.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Me too,” Harry says, wide eyes smiling softly at him, “I didn’t think about- or, I should’ve taken into consideration how it’s… you know. It looked weird, I can see that now, her with her hand on my knee and she _was_ flirting with me, I _did_ know she was, but I wasn’t flirting back, I’m pretty sure I wasn’t- if I was I’m so fucking sorry, I didn’t mean to ruin your night or—”

Louis pukes into Harry’s lap.

For a moment, they just stare at each other, room utterly silent.

Then Harry looks down, jaw dropping, bum shifting back violently. He begins to gag.

“Harry, fuck, are you gonna—”

Harry sets off the bed and sprints into the bathroom. Louis doesn’t follow, but he definitely doesn’t miss the noises Harry makes into the toilet-bowl.

“Harry?” he calls out, when Harry hasn’t made any noises for a while, “I’m sorry! Are you all right?”

“Showering.”

“All right, I, d’you need me to get you anything or—”

“Get yourself some bloody water and then go to sleep!”

Louis buries into his own arms.

He just screamed Harry all the way out of a party. Then he cheated on him, at the same party. Then he puked in his lap.

And right now, he’s still so pissed he can’t even get his stupid mind to comprehend the extent of what he’s done. Right now, he’s so drunk that he passes out on the bed before Harry comes back out of the shower.

 

*

 

He wakes the following morning with a throbbing headache, a mouth that tastes like drinking orange juice just after brushing your teeth and a clicking-noise behind him.

He turns, finding Harry up in his pillows, happily typing away. He’s naked, save for the duvet protecting his privates from the bottom of his laptop, and his hair’s up in a bun. He looks so good Louis almost allows himself to feel fine for a moment.

Then he remembers that he has no fucking right to.

For a selfish second, he wishes he didn’t, wishes he’d had a total blackout and he could just go the rest of his life, happily oblivious. Then he shifts on his hip and feels the bruise. Rolls onto his side and feels a sting in his shoulder, where the bloke bit down when he came last night. Receives a tender smile from Harry and feels— fucking disgusted with himself.

Something must show on his face. “Hangover?” Harry asks. He doesn’t wait for an answer, but pushes his laptop aside and gets out of bed. He comes back minutes later with a bottle of ice-cold water, two Aspirins and the bag of McDonald’s from yesterday. “Can’t be bothered to warm it for you,” he says, “you can do that yourself if you can’t eat it cold, Lap Puker.”

Louis groans and pinches the bridge of his nose.

“No, it’s all right,” Harry chuckles, “not like you were deliberately aiming for me or anything. Or was it?”

If Louis looked up he’d find Harry grinning at him, crooked and teasing and much, much too lovely. So he doesn’t. “No,” he mutters, popping the pills and downing half the water-bottle with them. “I’m sorry.”

“Shut up, I said it was all right.”

Harry shifts around beside him, gets comfortable again, pulls his laptop back on himself. Louis eats a few cold fries, then feels sick and pushes the entire bag away from himself.

He lies down again, burying his face in the pillow.

Harry’s hand comes to cup the back of his head, just resting there. He scratches at Louis’ scalp, then moves down the nape of his neck and on until his fingers falter at the back of Louis’ shoulder. “Lou,” he murmurs, “Louis.”

“Yeah?”

“You’ve got, like, a weird mark on your shoulder. Looks like someone, like... bit you or something.”

Fuck. Louis shifts out of Harry’s hands, much too jerky for normal. “Oh, I uhm—” he twists an arm round to feel at the bite-mark, “I, well- Niall bit me.”

Harry gives a disbelieving laugh. “Niall _bit_ you?”  

“Yeah, he, ehm—” oh, he hates himself, “he- we were pissed out of our heads and got in a playfight and he got a bit too into it, I think. Probably how I got that bruise on my hip too.”

For a second, he fears Harry doesn’t believe him, all too quietly suddenly.

Then Harry finally speaks; “Lou, I’m really sorry about yesterday. With that woman. I was- I think I might’ve been, you know… well, not flirting, but just, knowing that she was flirting with me and sort of- not leaving the situation fast enough. That wasn’t right, especially considering- stuff. I’m sorry. Again. And for, uhm, bringing up the sex-thing in the middle of an argument. I feel like such a dick.”

Oh god. Louis takes his face out of the pillow. “Please stop apologising.”

“I’m sorry, I—”

Louis reaches up and slaps a hand over his mouth. “ _Please_ stop apologising,” he says, “you did _nothing_ wrong.”  

Harry licks the inside of his palm.

Louis can’t hardly manage a shriek, or even just a grin. He can’t even handle looking Harry in the eye, or getting out of bed, or breathing without feeling like his throat is closing in on him, like someone’s pushing at his chest every time it expands. He can’t even grasp what he’s done.

He pushes his face into the pillow again.

“Mhm. Love you like that,” Harry hums lowly, putting the laptop away, scooting down, coming closer, much too close, Louis’ chest tightening up, “face down,” he links one leg over the back of Louis’, his dick pressing to the side of Louis’ arse through his boxers, “arse up. S’just perfect. I could just take you like this, Lou. You wouldn’t have to do anything, I could just slide right into you like this, if you’d let me—”

“Harry—” Louis shimmies around a little, trying to get him off, but he’s a dead-weight, much too heavy to move unless he’s willing. “Harry, please—”

“Yeah,” Harry says then, exasperatedly, and lifts off, “yeah, sorry, I’m- sorry, I forget I’m not allowed to fuckin’- whatever—”

And oh, Louis feels so terrible. He wants to scream what he’s done just to stop feeling like he’s on the brink of explosion, but he doesn’t. The words stop at the top of his throat, right behind his teeth, he can’t get them over his lips. Or maybe he doesn’t want to. 

When Harry gets off the bed, he does move. “Stop, wait—”

“What?” he turns, throws a hand through his long hair and sighs, “what, Louis?”

And maybe he means to say it then. Maybe he’s right on the verge of not being able to keep it in any longer, maybe he feels selfish and wants to take it off his chest, but then he looks at Harry, really looks at him and— he stops. He can’t say it, not now, he can’t watch Harry’s expression as he crushes everything they have left. He can’t hear himself say it out loud.

They’re so fragile right now.

“Harry, c’mere,” he says instead, shifting to the edge of the bed and putting his feet down on the carpet. He waits for Harry to come closer, close enough to stand between his legs, and then he looks up at him, once, briefly, before it gets to be too much and he looks down again.

Then he takes Harry’s dick in his hand and starts to jerk him.

“ _Ah_ —” Harry fucks forward just by instinct, then steadies a hand on Louis’ shoulder and croaks out; “Lou, _ah_ , you don’t have to—”

“Want to make you feel good,” Louis cuts through, before he licks his lips and then wraps them around Harry’s dick.

Harry makes a startled noise, but when Louis swallows him down as far as he can, he doesn’t object. His fingers glide into the back of Louis’ hair, hips stuttering forward every now and again, nails gently scratching at Louis’ scalp, tugging just a little at his hair. He moans, like he always does, soft but shameless, louder the faster, deeper, Louis goes.

When he comes without forewarning and Louis just swallows, he immediately charges forward and throws himself onto him. Before Louis has a chance to wipe his mouth or guard himself, he’s being plastered with smacking wet kisses, all over his face, his neck, his collarbones.

“Thank you,” Harry pants, “thank you, thank you, thank you…” his kisses move further down, to Louis’ sternum, his stomach, and then his happy-trail.

Louis grabs him by the hair. “Hey, what are you doing?”

Harry nips at the waistband of Louis’ pants and grins up at him. “What s’it look like I’m doing?”

“No, wait, Haz—” he pulls him up by the hair, “it’s okay, you don’t have to.”

Harry’s brows furrow a little. “I want to.”

“Yeah, but—” but he can’t take it. He can’t take that, not when he’s had another guy touch his dick just last night, he can’t let Harry go down and do that for him now, not knowing what he’s done, “I’m not in the mood.”

And, _fuck_ , he’s said that too many times lately. He’s seen that exact reaction on Harry’s face too many times.  

“Okay,” Harry says, since he just got his dick sucked and can’t really complain, “okay, but- you sure you don’t want me to do something else for you?”

“No, I’m good.” He pets Harry’s cheek, just so it doesn’t seem so bad when he proceeds to push him off and get out of bed, “I’m just not in the mood.”

He gets out of the room before Harry has a chance to offer him one more thing he doesn’t deserve.

 

*

 

He takes a shower, but being alone with his own thoughts gets to be too much and he’s on his knees within minutes, puking into the toilet again. He’s in cold-sweats and a pair of trackies when he steps out on the balcony and calls Eleanor up.

Soon as he hears her voice on the other end, everything spills. It isn’t hard, it isn’t painful, it isn’t even a thought-process, it just spills right off his chest.

When he’s finally done, he feels better. For a second. And then he feels terrible again.

“Wow, Lou,” Eleanor says, after a what feels like an eternity, “I don’t, ehm… I’m not quite sure what to say right now.”

“No.”

He wouldn’t be either. Or, he’d be thinking _pathetic fucking hypocrite_ , but Eleanor’s too polite to say that.

“Uhm…” She’s calm, awfully calm, but then again she isn’t the one having spent over a month killing the love of her life over sleeping with someone else, only to find that she’s not one single fucking bit better herself. “Was it like… to get back at him? Or, get even?”  

Louis shifts weight. “I don’t know. I don’t- I’m not sure. Maybe.”

“Did it help?”

“Fuck no.”

She sighs into the phone. He digs his fingernails into his palm. “Are you gonna tell him?” she finally asks.

“I—” he throws a glance over his shoulder. Harry’s still in the bedroom, caught up in his writing, which he’s finally started doing again because things were getting— calmer. “I can’t, El, he’s- I can’t.”

“Why can’t you?”

He bites at a little cut in his lip, one he probably made last night when he was getting fucked into the bedpost by some random fucking nobody. “I’ll ruin- everything, I- we’re so fragile right now, I can’t go and- re-fuck it all up again.”

“But, darling,” she says, “you kind of already have. He just doesn’t know yet.”

Yet. “So, should I tell him?”

She makes a noise, but then stops herself. She pauses for so long that he’s on the verge of screaming when she finally does speak; “I can’t tell you whether you should or you shouldn’t. I’m not inside you two’s relationship, Lou. I don’t know what- I just can’t make that call. That’s on you,” she says, “but remember this - which you know from first-hand experience - the longer you don’t tell him, the worse it’ll be when you do.”

“Yeah.” He lets go of a breath he’d been holding longer than he realised. “Suppose I’ve got two years before it gets irreperable, haven’t I? You know, if we’re being fair.”

The joke falls flat because he’s getting so cold his teeth are clattering over his words. Or maybe because it just isn’t fucking funny.

“That isn’t fucking funny.” Well. “Anyway, you said it happened at Zayn’s, yeah?”

“Yeah.”

“Well, did Zayn see anything? You said it happened in Zayn’s bed.”

And _fuck_ , that’s terrible too. “Yeah,” Louis groans, clutching his head, “yeah, so? He still didn’t see. Could’ve been a million other people.”

“I know. But be sure. I’m not- look, I don’t wanna come off like a horrible person here, but I’ve cheated before, you know that. And sometimes you’ve got to- you’ve got to make sure your steps can’t be traced. If you’re still not certain how or when or if you’re gonna tell him, then there’s one thing you’ve _got_ to be one hundred percent certain of; that somebody else don’t tell him first.”

 

*

 

In the kitchen, hours later, he finally gets a moment alone again. In the middle of speaking to Eleanor, Harry snuck up on him from behind and nearly made him drop his phone over the railing. Since then, Harry’s been more or less following him around all day. It hasn’t seemed intentional, but every time Louis settled into the couch or a dining-table chair or the bed, Harry brought his laptop in and sat beside him. When Louis made a nervous little joke about it, Harry just looked at him, smiled so softly, and said _you know I write best when I’m sitting in the same room as you, babe_  and Louis nearly puked from guilt. Again.

Now, Harry’s finally jumped in the shower and Louis sits on the kitchen-counter, crumbled up in the corner, palm sweaty around his phone as he waits for Zayn to pick up.

On one of the final rings, he does. “‘ello?” he rasps.

“Hi, mate, it’s, ehm, it’s Louis.” He holds his breath for a second, fearing he might be screamed at, but nothing comes.

Not for a little bit, anyway. “Lou-eh.” It’s low, monotone, and it doesn’t reveal any emotion what so ever, bad nor good. Fuck Zayn.

Fuck. _Fuck_. “How are you, mate? Rough morning?”

“Yeah, well, you know. Bit of a head-ache. Bad neck. The usual.”

Louis chuckles awkwardly. “Yeah, I- me too. So, ehm... how’d it go with, ehm… pulling the stripper?”

“Fine.”

“Fine?” Louis clears his throat, shifts around, begins to feel a little short of breath, “it went- so, so, what, so you guys fucked or?”

Zayn barks a laugh. “Wow, mate, that’s a bit— did you call just to know the saucy details of my sex life?”

“Yeah sure, you know us- us boring old monogamists, we take what we can get.”

No response. Louis’ heart sets into a gallop.

“You there?”

A crackling in the background. Then; “yeah, sorry, mate, I was just unwrapping some noodles.”

He sighs so hard it’s almost aggressive. “Oh. All right, cool. Cool.”

The shower cuts off in the other room. He’s running out of time, but luckily, Zayn doesn’t seem to know anything anyway. Worst case scenario, the stripper’s just a massive whore and fucked both of them in one night. Best case, Zayn’s being vague about it only because he’s too proud to admit he didn’t pull.

“Well,” Louis says, “I just called to check up on you. Won’t hold you any longer. Have fun with the, eh- noodles, mate.”

“Will do, Lou,” Zayn says, just as Harry comes sauntering into the kitchen, naked like the day he was born, “oh, and by the way; next time you fuck some random bloke in my bed, try not to jizz on my fuckin’ pillow-case.” 


	13. Chapter 13

“Wha’?” Louis asks, and his voice comes out so frail it’s mostly a breath.

Harry gives a frowny smile, and mouths out something along the lines of _who’s on the phone?_

“Zayn,” Louis replies, because he’s the biggest bloody idiot in the world.

“Hi Zaaayn!” Harry yells, jumping to the phone and prying it out of Louis’ hand, “how’s it feel being ancient?”

Louis can’t hear what Zayn replies, but he can hear his heart pounding against his rib-cage. “Harry, please give me—”

“Ahah, shut the fuck up, you bitter old man,” Harry chuckles into the phone, whacking Louis’ grabby hands away from himself, “oh, by the way, how’d it go with the stripper? Did you pull or was he all tease?”

Louis’ entire body freezes.

Harry picks at his bottom lip, face expressionless as he listens to Zayn’s response. Louis thinks he might die.

“Oh, wow,” Harry finally says, his brows flying upwards, “oh, wow, what a massive prick… yeah… wow, that’s disgusting, what a slag… yeah.”

Louis stares at him, waiting anxiously for him to look up and meet his gaze, unable to breathe before he does.

He doesn’t, just yet. “All right, I’ll let you go, then- d’you want Lou back? Oh, all right. All right, see ya,” he gives a weird smile, “love you too, mate,” he says, brows furrowing a little, “is something the matter, you sound… I don’t know, just the first time I’ve ever heard you say you loved me in, like, _all_ the time I’ve known you. S’it like a bucket list-thing cause you’re old now? Tell all your friends you love them before it’s too late or—”

The beep is loud enough for Louis to hear.

“The fuck…” Harry murmurs, taking the phone off his ear. Soon as he does, Louis takes advantage and snatches it back. “He hung up.”

“Probably just the reception.”

“He lives on the seventh floor in London, Louis,” Harry nods at the phone, “call him back.”

Louis flicks it off and gives the worst, most false chuckle of his life. “Why? You were done talking.”

“Yeah, but- it just cut off, I’ve gotta just give him a quick ring to see if he’s all right.”

At a loss for anything else to do or say, beginning to panic, Louis reaches his throbbing fingertips out and yanks Harry close. Soon as he’s within reach, he attacks Harry’s lips, then his jaw, his throat, his neck, swings his legs around his waist and locks him in.

“Wow, hey, _shit—_ ”

“You look so good right now,” Louis says, and hopes his raspy voice just comes off as being suddenly overwhelmed with arousal, “want you now—”

Harry grunts at that, thrusting up against him, “yeah? You- what do you want, d’you want—”

“Want you,” Louis says, clawing at Harry’s back, squeezing him with his thighs, “want you, just want you, come on, let’s—”

“Yeah, I- fuck yeah, okay,” Harry hauls him off the counter then, taking him back to the bedroom.

He throws Louis on the bed, stops for a moment to smooth his hair back from his face and tie up in a bun, as Louis bounces off the mattress and then begins to shimmy out of his trackies.

For a moment after, Harry just stands there, licking his lips and jerking his big dick to full hardness.

“What do you want?” Louis asks him, getting a hold of his own dick, not taking his eyes off of Harry, even as it’s a struggle, even as his heart still sits behind his teeth, hard lump of guilt stuck in his throat.

“Anything.”

“No,” Louis says, “what do you _want_?”

Harry lets his gaze roll down Louis’ body then, dark and hungry, and his voice is a rasp when he finally meets Louis’ eye again and says; “wanna give you my cock.” He swallows thickly, lips pressing together and then parting again, wet and plump, “I think... I think you need it,” he says, “I think you need to get fucked. I’ve been thinking… you’ve been needing it. My cock.”

A ragged breath falls from Louis’ throat, his dick twitching in his hand. He closes his eyes, tries to let himself get lost in it. “Yeah?”

“S’kinda like…” Harry murmurs, and he’s coming closer, the mattress dipping at the foot of the bed, “kinda like snickers.”

Louis opens his eyes, a little laugh escaping him. “What?”

Harry grins, hovering above him on all fours suddenly, slick head of his dick touching to Louis’ thigh. “You’re not yourself when you’re hungry.”

“Oh _god_.”

“Hey, don’t groan at me,” Harry knee’s at Louis’ thighs, spreading them apart, “I’m the only one who can help you. I’ve got the magic cock.”

“Oh, fuck off,” Louis laughs, and Harry does too, all crinkles, beautiful. Louis hates himself.

Harry grinds down on him, goes easy with him, kisses and touches and licks at Louis’ collarbones, does everything right, everything sweet, slow, loving. And every time he does, every time he lifts up just to check Louis’ expression, just to ask _is this okay?_ , he only makes it worse. He fucked someone else and Louis still isn’t over it. He fucked someone else and Louis did too and maybe he was hoping, subconsciously, wishing, that it’d make him feel better. Less inferior. Less like a scorned little fool, but it doesn’t, it just makes him feel twice as sick with it all.

When Harry finds the lube and slicks his fingers up, sits back and hitches one of Louis’ legs up over his shoulder and begins to open him up, Louis closes his eyes. It hurts, not from the stretch, not from Harry’s stupid rings because he cared enough to take them off, because he cares so much he’s dragging it out, one knuckle at a time.

It hurts, because Louis is sore.

“Tell me how you feel,” Harry murmurs, three fingers buried in him, gently kneading at his spot. He presses a little kiss to the inside of Louis’ thigh. “S’it feel good?”

“Yeah,” Louis huffs, and it’s true, for the most part. He’s grinding back on Harry’s fingers, body chasing that perfect pressure on his spot, dick leaking onto his belly. It’s good. It just hurts, too. Especially when Harry starts to fuck his fingers in and out of him, maybe trying to prepare him for his dick, maybe just turning himself on at the look of it.

Either way, Louis has to bite his lip not to wince.

He stays quiet as Harry begins to pull his fingers out and then slick his dick up. Harry grabs him by the shoulders and rucks him up the mattress a bit, lifts his arse to place a pillow under and then hitches his legs up. It’s probably going to hurt, but he’s reveled in this particular kind of pain before; getting fucked viciously one night and then again the next morning. He’s managed to love it because it’s been with Harry, it’s always been with Harry and he’s always been able to say, _no stop, it’s too much after last night_.

Now, he feels a bit like he’s just going to have to bite the pillow and take it.

Except he’s on his back and Harry’s looking down at him, so intensely he has to close his eyes again.

“Love you,” Harry says, before he nudges his dick-head at Louis’ arsehole with persistence, breaching his muscle and sinking in a good inch. “ _Ungh_ ,” he grunts with it, and pushes in another inch, “ _ungh_ , open your eyes. _Ah_ , open your—” he puts his weight into it and slides in fully, and Louis’ instinct is to let his eyes shoot open with a hiss, but he stifles himself and screws them further shut instead, “ _ah_ , fuck, you feel so good. Fuck, oh fuck yes, _ah_ \- babe, open your e—”

“Kiss me,” Louis says, just to get him to shut the fuck up.

Harry surges down and tongues into his mouth, one hand on his arse, holding it up, and the other round his jaw. As he builds up a rhythm, long pull-outs and deep grinding push-ins, they fall out of the kiss, Harry’s face resting in the pillow beside Louis’. The feathers creak beneath them, and Louis realises then that he’s missed that sound so much, paired with Harry’s grunts in his ear, his dick a hard hot pressure inside of him, even as it hurts to take the grind of it against his sore skin.

He locks his ankles over Harry’s back, throws his head back and grabs at his arse, pulls him deeper, asks for it harder, faster, rougher. When he slips Harry’s name, he remembers how much that gets him going, reminded by the set of Harry’s teeth in his shoulder.

“Yeah, say my name,” Harry pants, lifting up to look down at him, his face in absolute shambles, little curls clinging to the sweaty sides of it, “say my name, Lou, tell me how much you like it.”

“I- _ah_ \- fuckin’ love it, Harry,” Louis manages, eyes flicking around under Harry’s gaze because he can’t take it when they look each other in the eye, can’t forget about himself when Harry looks right through him like that, “fuckin’ love it, come on, c’mere, kiss me again, baby—”

Harry grabs him by the jaw. “Tell me how much you’ve missed my cock,” he says, thrusting in so hard Louis throws his head back and yells, “come on, tell me, wanna hear you, _ungh_ \- tell me how much you’ve missed having my cock up your arse—”  

“Missed it, _fuck_ \- missed it so much, I—” Louis slaps a hand onto his face, gone delirious with how hard he’s being pounded into, and shoves it aside just to get him to stop staring, “I missed it, get- _ah_ —”

Harry finally comes down again, face where it was before, nipping at Louis’ earlobe, licking at the shell of it.

And it’s beginning to reach the point of _too much to be fun_ , the constant push and pull of Harry’s cock inside having him wincing more than moaning. “Come,” Louis croaks out as he sneaks a hand in-between them and starts to jerk himself off, “come for me, Harry, please—”

“Tell me,” Harry breathes, “tell me you want me to come up your arse, wanna hear you say it.”

So Louis does, over and over, when he spills up both their bellies and for a while after, as Harry sets into rabbit-pace and chases his release. When he does come, they both react so loudly that Harry has to slap a hand over Louis’ mouth and press his own into the mattress. It’s overwhelming, and uncomfortable, and intimate in a way that makes Louis grab onto Harry’s arse to get him deeper and not let go for minutes after.

Eventually, Harry pulls out and rolls onto his back with a long sigh. He murmurs something about _I love you, that was incredible_ and then _‘m just gonna close my eyes for a second, just, mhm…_ and then he’s asleep, open-mouthed and snoring.

When Louis sneaks a look at his phone again, he’s got three new messages.

**Zayn - saw your pissed arse walk out of my room right after you’d fucked the guy u didnt even notice me. Went in and stripper was peeling off the condom and ur jizz was all over my pillow.**

**Zayn - and dont call me up worried, i wont tell harry, only told him stripper fucked someone in my bed but not who. thats ur shit.**

**Zayn - and dont call me up at all for a while actually, because ive lost all respect for you right now and i think ur an arsehole and harry is great. and u jizzed on my pillow case.**

 

*

 

One week passes before Harry knows the truth.

Monday, Louis extends his lunch-break to go down and get tested, just to be on the safe side, even though he was enough of a thoughtless idiot to fuck Harry raw Sunday. He spends the next couple days burying himself in work and the evenings letting Harry bury himself in him. They fuck once, sometimes twice, a night, for the entire week. It’s good because it’s fucking and it’s with Harry, but it’s also terrible, whenever Harry tries to make it intimate. Whenever it gets a bit too quiet, too slow, and Harry leans down to kiss him on the forehead and says things like _I love you so much, you’re so beautiful, babe_ and _look at me, Lou, I wanna see your eyes_ , all Louis can think is _if I open my eyes right now, you’ll see right through me. You’ll see right through me and you’ll know what I’ve done_.

Thursday, Louis gets his test-results back. He doesn’t know why he was nervous, he used a bloody condom and it didn’t bloody break, but it’s still a massive bloody relief to have it in writing; all clean.

The feeling doesn’t last long, though. Friday, Harry gets a call from Marie. She tells him her mother was supposed to come and babysit this weekend while she studied for her exams, but she’s been held up and _would you and your Louis like to come up to Sheffield tomorrow?_ It’s only then that Louis realises he didn’t even know Marie was a student. He doesn’t ask what she studies, though, because he just can’t bring himself to feign interest in her life. He knows, just by knowing himself, that if Harry were to answer his questions, he’d only want to dig at it, get jealous and asks _yeah, is that so? How come you know so much about her, how come you’ve spent so much time chatting to her, I thought you only chatted to Charlie, what more do you know about her that I don’t?_

And he doesn’t want to be that guy. He doesn’t have the fucking right to be that guy.

So he keeps his mouth shut and nods when Harry asks if he’s coming with and then they fuck three times that night to keep from talking.

 

*

 

“Booked the hotel in advance, by the way,” Harry says Saturday morning, when they’re in the car on their way up to Sheffield.

He said the same thing just two hours ago in the kitchen when Louis was dipping his tea-bag in and out of the water just to have something to do with his hands, somewhere to put his eyes. Now he’s saying it again, not because Louis didn’t respond the first time, but because they’ve been on the road for fifteen minutes and neither have spoken a single word.

“Okay,” Louis says, and then Harry nods and doesn’t say much else.

Louis wonders whether he knows something is up. Whether he senses it. Harry hasn’t ever been the type to take you for your word and expect things to be fine just because you say they are. They’ve fucked a lot and he’s been happy, horribly grateful, actually, hasn’t said no once, even last night, when he was so tired it looked a struggle just to keep his eyes open and Louis went for thirds. But Louis suspects there’s more going on in his head than he lets on. He’s been with him for eight years. He knows that little line between Harry’s brows, knows when it’s just because he’s thinking and when it’s because he’s— worried.

Therefore, he has intentionally strayed from ever asking anything that could make Harry speak his mind. It’s become so infected, the thought of what he did that night and the thought of Harry finding out, that Louis starts to feel sick just allowing his mind to wander in that direction anymore.

That’s why the sex has been good. Constant. A perfect distraction.

But they can’t fuck now. Not when Harry’s driving. Or, well— “remember that time we were driving up to your mum’s place?”

“We’ve driven up there hundreds of times, Lou, you’ve got to be a little more specific than that.”

Louis slides a hand onto his thigh. “You were driving,” he says, slowly, and then lets his hand slide up to Harry’s crotch, “and then I went down and—”

“ _Louis_ ,” Harry takes one hand off the wheel to loop around Louis’ wrist and move his hand back to his own lap, “not right now.”

Louis gives a disbelieving chuckle. “You’re turning down a blowjob?”

“I’m thinking about my kid.”

And Louis’ mouth snaps shut at that. Doesn’t open again.

Harry glances over at him. “You’re not looking forward at all, I know that and I get that, Lou,” he says, “but you’ve got to… you’ve got to understand that I’ve got fuckin’ butterflies in my stomach right now, I- you’ve got to understand, I think about her every day. I know that sounds crazy and you don’t want to hear that, but- I can just feel it, when I’m with her, I- she’s my flesh and blood. I can’t think about getting head, I’m buzzing out of my bloody seat to see her. I’m sorry.”

“Oh.”

Harry glances over again. “You’re not… sad or anything?”

“No no. No.” Embarrassed with himself, mostly. Disgusted. “Yeah, no, sorry. I understand, I’m sorry.”

Harry lays his hand out on Louis’ and gives a gentle squeeze. “S’okay, baby. I’m just happy to have you with me. You’re amazing.”

“I’m really not.”

“You are.”

Louis has to pinch Harry’s hand to make him stop it. Harry chuckles and puts it back on the wheel again. Louis bites his lip not to scream out what he’s done.

 

*

 

Marie’s building looks the same as it did last, the inside of her lift, her cosy flat and her canary yellow walls. She’s as stunning as she was last, if not more, even in her sweats, reading-glasses on and her hair up in a bun. Louis catches himself checking if Harry looks at her, _how_ he looks at her. He isn’t even sure what to look for anymore. He’s lost track of reality when it comes to this.

“I’ll be in the kitchen if you guys need me. And thank you so much- I just, you know, can’t get any work done if she’s hooked round my ankle twenty-four-seven and I thought, why not ask him? You seem so keen on coming round anyway so it’d be sort of like… two birds in one stone, I suppose,” Marie blabbers as they follow her into the flat.

Harry looks like he’s just nodding at everything she says, humming along and waiting to be let into the kid’s room. Soon as he is, he confirms that by practically sprinting in there.

Louis follows lazily, not wanting to be alone with Marie, but also... not really wanting to see the kid again.

He goes in there anyway, finding the kid on her bed, playing with her iPad. At first, Louis thinks _well it’s not as bad as I remembered_. Then Harry says hello and she looks up and she smiles and giggles and it’s just— his kid. His kid, still.

“What are you playing?” Harry asks, sitting down beside her, “oh, the colour-matching one. Solid choice…”

Marie walks up behind Louis and he jumps a little at it, before he forces himself to move into the room and slide sideways against the wall.

“Hey, Charlie, mummy’s gonna be sitting in the kitchen, all right? Harry’s come to play with you today. You like Harry, yeah?”

The kid looks at her mum, and then Harry and then smiles and slaps him on the cheek. “Yeah!”

“That’s good, darling. You have fun.”

Soon as she’s gone, Charlie turns back to her iPad-game, chubby little fingers tapping away at the screen. Louis stands by the door for a moment, watching Harry watch her.

Then he pulls himself together and walks over.

Harry smiles and pats the space beside himself. When he sits down, Charlie looks up at him, eyes going curiously round. Before Louis has a chance to ask her for her name or introduce himself she turns back to her game and continues.

Harry grins at Louis. Louis grins back, forgetting everything else for a second. “She’s fucki—”

“ _Louis_ —”

“ _Flippin'_ adorable. She’s _flippin_ ' adorable,” Louis corrects, “sorry.”

Harry just smiles and then asks Charlie if she wants to sit on his lap so Louis can follow her game too. She says yes and Harry links one arm around her little pot belly and the other around Louis’ shoulders. They sit for a bit, just watching her play her game and giving running commentary.

Louis knows how much this means to Harry. Even more so now, can feel it in the way he glances over at Louis every other second, checking to see if he’s just as mesmerized by the little blobster as he is. He’s never said it, _would_ never say it, but he wants Louis to fall in love with her too. He’ll cope with it if Louis doesn’t, he’ll make things work and never blame Louis for it, but he won’t understand. He won’t understand because he looks at the kid and he thinks _how could anyone not love her? What kind of person wouldn’t?_

But he’d never say it. He’s too understanding, even if he doesn’t understand.

“I’m just gonna use the loo quickly,” Louis says after a while, petting Harry’s cheek when he looks at him worriedly, and then saying goodbye to Charlie who doesn’t look up from her screen.

He doesn’t even have to pee. He just sits down on the toilet and stares at the wall across from him for five minutes straight. In the end, he rubs his sweaty palms off in his thighs and gets up and goes to the sink, preparing himself to go and tell Harry he isn’t feeling well and that he’s just going to go back to the hotel.

Then he hears the front door opening, right on the other side of the wall.

“What are you doing here?” It’s Marie, speaking in a hushed tone.

Louis finds himself leaning against the door, too uncomfortable to walk out there, too curious not to listen in.

“I just need five minutes, baby, _please_ , I just need five minutes to talk to you,” a man begs, and it sounds like he’s standing out in the stairway still. It also sounds like he’s pissed off his head.

“Liam,” she sighs, “I’m in the middle of studying, I’ve got people over, I can’t—”

“People over?” The guy exclaims, voice raising, “what people, you’re- is he here?” He pauses, then says it again, slower, less voice, “he’s _here_?”

“Liam,” she says again, “please, can you just- you’re drunk in the middle of the day and- I can’t deal with this right now, I’ve got a shitload of stuff I’ve got to read up on and I don’t want Charlie to see you like this and—”

“You’ve got him _in_ _here_ —” more noise, feet trampling into the flat, “let me see him, I just wanna see him—”      

“Liam!” There’s a tumbling, like the guy’s trying to fight her to get inside.

Louis opens the door then. The bloke is tall and built, and if he wanted to he could take Louis out in one punch, no doubt. He looks drunk, though, swaying around in the hall, and more desperate than threatening.

“Everything all right?” Louis still asks, puffing his chest up as he steps out into the hall.

The bloke’s eyes blow wide as he looks Louis over. “Is this him?” he asks, breathless, and looks back to Marie, “is this him, is his—”

“No, Liam, it’s—”

“Well, then who the hell is this guy, you- how many blokes are you having over, what is—” he begins to come closer again, and Marie backs up.

When the guy doesn’t move backwards, Louis reaches forward by instinct and puts a hand on his arm. “Look, she said she doesn’t want you in here, mate, why don’t you back up a bit?”

An incredulous noise falls from the bloke’s lips, and he looks back to Marie, almost pleading. When he gets nothing out of it, though, he finally steps back. He stumbles his way backwards out of the flat, and when he turns, Marie follows, calling out for him, asking if he needs her to give him a lift home, but he doesn’t respond, just tramples down the stairs.

Louis stays in the hall, utterly unsure of what to do with himself.

“I’m sorry,” Marie says, when she finally gives up on the guy and comes back inside, “that was- I’m sorry you had to see that, he’s-” she rubs at her face and leans back against the door with a long sigh, “he’s not normally like that. At all.”

Louis nods. “Right,” he mutters, crossing his arms over his chest just to have somewhere to put them, “right, ehm… and _who_ is he? Exactly?”

“Ex,” she says, so lowly that it takes him a moment to hear it, “he was—” she shakes her head at the floor and then wipes at her waterlines and sniffles, “he’s just a fucking arsehole, I’m sorry. He used to live here. Now he’s coming back round, thinking he can make it up to us, begging me to take him back, he’s fucked it all up, it’s—” she cuts herself off, then lifts her head and gives a sorry little smile, “I don’t know why I’m loading off on you. Sorry.”

“No, it’s fine, it’s, it’s—”

“It’s stupid, I’m sorry. Thanks for… you know, walking out here and that. But he really isn’t- dangerous like that. But thanks anyway, it was really nice of you, Louis.”

Louis shrugs a shoulder. “Yeah, well, you know, ehm… just a natural reaction, I suppose. Would’ve done it for any woman.”

“Yeah, no, course, but… thanks for doing it for me. Anyway.”

She smiles at him again. He nods, at a loss for anything else to do or say.

 

*

 

In the hotel that evening, after the movie they rented ends, and it’s only eight pm and they’ve already had sex and Harry looks like he wants to cuddle, ask about feelings, be all romantic, maybe fill up that bathtub in the bathroom and put on candles and music, Louis asks about Liam. Just to talk about something that isn’t them, or him, or what he’s done.

“I mean… Yeah, she’s mentioned him,” Harry mutters, scratching at the back of his neck. He’s afraid it’s trap, Louis can see it on him. Like, if he answers it too well, Louis will ask him _well how the fuck do you know all of that about her?_ And, yes, maybe he’ll want to. But he’ll keep it in. He’ll try his best to. “He’s, uhm… he’s like, he used to be Charlie’s stepdad, you know. He was there… all the time and stuff.”

“Oh.”

“And he, uhm… well, the reason I- uhm, the reason that she told me about him is cause I asked her, like… why now? You know? Why _now_ , after two years, why did she suddenly now decide to find me?”

“Right.”

He glances over at Louis. “And she said that it was like… well she said she was just coming to terms with how her life had changed lately and she wanted to become a better person and mother and stuff like that.”

Louis’ eyes narrow. “But you think there’s more to it than that?”

“I think that, like… I mean, I don’t want to draw conclusions, but like— from what I gathered it seemed like she sort of… contacted me as a sort of revenge-thing. On him. I know that sounds horrible, but—” he looks Louis in the eye again, much too intensely, “even non-horrible people do horrible things sometimes, I guess.”

Louis swallows thickly. “Yeah. You’re right.”

“And anyway… I think when she met me that sort of fell away- I hope it did, anyway. I think she saw that I looked so much like Charlie and she realised there was more in it than just- the revenge-thing, I guess. But who knows? I mean, no matter what or why, I’m just happy that she did contact me. Otherwise I’d have never been able to know Charlie.”

“What do you think happened with them?” Louis asks, “Marie and her bloke?”

Harry’s lips click apart, and then they close again. “I don’t know.” He’s lying.

“Are you sure?”

He bites his lip. “Uhm… I mean I’m not a hundred percent sure, but… from what I understood, I think he might’ve… you know,” he looks over at Louis like he wants him to guess the end of the sentence without having to have it spelled out, but he doesn’t. So Harry says it; “he cheated on her.”

“Oh.”

“Like, but like- I think it was something like… someone at his work. And he’d been screwing around for like, two months with the same woman. So, not like, like—” _Not like us_. Is what he doesn’t say. “- And also, like… she had to find out from someone else. From someone at the work-place that she knew.”

“Oh.”

Harry turns properly and looks at Louis. Studies him for a while, eyes gliding down his face, brows drawing together. And, he _knows_. Louis can feel it, Harry knows what he’s done, he must see it on Louis, he must be able to read it in his expression, he must know. He’s going to tell Louis that he knows, that it’s so fucking obvious and that Zayn told him anyway and that Louis’ the most hypocritical pathetic piece of shi—

“Thank you.”

“Wha’?” Louis breathes.

“Thank you. I just wanted to, uhm- say that again. Thank you. For coming with me up here. I’m really- I’m still just… I can’t explain how incredible it is that you’re still here with me. That you’re doing this, Lou, coming with and everything, even after the fucked-up shit that I’ve done to you, I just think... You’re just honestly amazing, Lou. I don’t even know how to put into words how much—”

“Harry, I fucked someone else.”

 


	14. Chapter 14

The first thing Harry does is laugh.

Assuming it’s out of disbelief, Louis begins to repeat himself; “I fucked someone el—”

“I heard you,” Harry cuts him off. It’s sharp, humourless. “I heard you the first time.”

He sits up. Louis lies stiff in his spot, watching him, staring at his hunched back, waiting for something, anything, holding his breath for it.

“Who?” Harry eventually asks, his voice scarily toneless.

“Stripper at Zayn’s birthday thing.”

The only indication that Harry even heard him is the sound of his lips clicking apart. He doesn’t move. “Where?”

Louis clears his throat and it hurts, everything hurts, his chest, his stomach, even just looking at Harry. “Zayn’s bedroom,” he says, “I was drunk as hell, Harry, I—”

“Have you spoken to him since?” Harry cuts right through.

“ _No_!”

A ragged breath falls from Harry’s lips. His hands are shaking.

Louis wants to reach out, wants to leap across the mattress and wrap around him, cling to him like Harry did back when he told Louis, but he knows that’ll only make it worse.

He stays still.

“Did he fuck you? Like— or was it just oral?” comes the next question, and Harry’s voice is lower now. Smaller.

Louis bites the insides of his cheeks, taking a second just to steady himself and keep from crying. “He fucked me,” he half-whispers.

Harry’s head drops. 

“He wore a condom,” Louis says, because he can’t reach out and pull Harry close, but he feels like he has to do or say something, just _anything_ to make it a little less horrible, “I got tested Monday and it’s fine, I’m all cle—”

“So, so when we- when you let me fuck you for the first time again, that was—” his voice cracks and Louis feels like everything inside him does too at the sound of it, “that was the day after you’d- that was the _only_ reason you let me—”  he cuts himself off, head snapping up again.

Louis expects him to whip around, yell and scream, maybe hurl a pillow at him or start crying, but he doesn’t. He pushes off the bed, walks into the bathroom and locks the door behind him.

Louis’ heart won’t stop racing, stomach twisted up in knots and Harry’s reaction, or lack thereof, could be a relief, but it isn’t, it’s just really fucking terrifying.

He gets out of bed and knocks the door, calls for Harry several times, but all he gets is _‘m takin’ a shower_ and _go to bed, Lou-eh_.

In the end, he does just that. He doesn’t go to sleep though, just lies stiff on the bed, clawing at the sheets, staring at the ceiling, waiting for the shower to cut off.

And, even if he weren’t crawling out of his skin with anticipation, even if it were just a normal Saturday evening-shower, Louis would still deem it the longest Harry’s ever taken in eight years of being together.

When he finally comes out, he shuts off all the lights before he crawls into bed. When, after a tense minute of silence, he finally speaks again, Louis can tell he’s been crying just by the sound of his voice; “you’re never going to see him again.”

It isn’t a question. It isn’t even close to being a question. Louis still answers it; “no. Never.”

“And you wouldn’t… you wouldn’t have done this if I hadn’t- you’d never have, would you?”

“No.” It’s the honest truth, but it still feels wrong, like trying to shift some of the blame onto Harry. “I’d never have, but that doesn’t make it right.”

“Didn’t say it did,” Harry replies coldly, “goodnight.”

 

*

 

When Louis wakes the following morning, he’s alone in bed. The shower isn’t running and there’s no one on the balcony and he starts to feel scared, starts to fear the worst, but then he checks his phone.

**H - gone to Marie’s to spend time with Charlie. Will be back round 4 pm. Took the bus so you can take the car if u want to come up here or whatever. Didnt want to wake u. See u later**

He re-reads the message so many times that the words start to lose meaning.

He knows Harry. He knows Harry angry, sad, scared, horny, happy, miserable. He doesn’t know what this is. All he knows is that it scares him.

So much he spends the entire day in bed, just staring at the telly, watching one show turn into another and another and not _actually_ watching a single one. He refrains from texting Harry, wanting to give him space, wanting not to trigger a bad reaction in him when he’s at Marie’s, wanting so badly to have him come back and just scream Louis’ ear off. At least then he’d know what he was thinking.

Of course, that’s not what happens.

When Harry does come back, 4 PM like promised, he’s apathetic. Cold, but not passive-aggressively so. Just…  toneless. Expressionless. Cold.

They pack up their overnight bags and leave the hotel, check out and get in the car and Louis keeps on glancing at him, but he gets nothing out of it. No explanation, no emotion, no eye contact. Nothing.

His nerves can’t take it. He’s tripping in the car, biting at his lip, the insides of his cheek, his fingertips, anything not to scream out _just say something! Please, just fucking something, anything!_

But Harry just sits there, hands tense around the wheel, jaw locked tight, eyes not leaving the road for a moment.

When they finally make it home, it’s dark out and Harry goes straight to the bedroom and doesn’t come out again for a long time. Louis cooks up a noodle-dish and brings him a bowl of it and he looks up from his laptop for a second, says “cheers”, takes it and then doesn’t look up again. When Louis stays wavering in front of him, forming words in his head that never leave his lips, Harry eventually mutters; “m’ just writing, Louis” and he might as well have said _take a fucking hint and get the fuck out, Louis_.

They don’t speak again until eleven pm, when Harry comes through to put his bowl out. Louis’ lying on the couch, wondering whether or not it’s even worth asking if he’s supposed to sleep on it tonight.

In the end, he does ask, if for no other reason then just to get some semblance of communication going.

“I don’t know,” Harry replies, eyes on the floor, feet shifting impatiently, “I guess not. Just sleep in the bed.”

And so they brush their teeth side by side, not talking, and then they’re in the same bed again, two feet apart, still not talking. It’s all Louis can do not to break down crying. They were doing better. They were doing better and now they’re— now they’re doing this.

Now Harry shifts to face away from him and flicks off his light and gives a sullen “night” and Louis doesn’t know what to do to make it better.

He lies down, stares at the lines of Harry’s back, watches as it slowly begins to shake, soft enough that Louis wouldn’t have noticed if he weren’t looking out for it. “Harry, are you crying?”

He gives a hiccupy sound that’s enough of an answer in itself and Louis just— breaks inside.

“Baby, I’m so sorry,” he whispers.

He reaches out and touches his fingertips to Harry’s back and that’s the first time he provokes a reaction in Harry of any sort.

He rolls around and looks Louis right in the eye, incredulous and unyielding. There are tears running down his cheeks.

“Please,” he whispers, and he somehow manages to sound both pleading and pissed-off, “don’t touch me right now.”

“No,” Louis replies, “no, I’m sorry.”

Harry licks over his lips, eyes fluttering closed. “I, uhm—” he tries, like he’s fighting himself not to say what he thinks or just struggling to know what that even is, “I know that- you wouldn’t have done this if I hadn’t- that I provoked this reaction in you and that, uhm, like- that I fucked up and then stuff just snowballed and, like… but, can you just- you know, respect that I want space or- ehm…” he wipes at his nose and then presses the heels of his hands into his eyes, “I’m just having a really hard time with this right now, Louis.”

“Yeah,” Louis breathes, fighting with everything he has left not to cry too, “okay. Okay.”

He shifts backwards, creating space between them.

He lets go of a breath he might’ve been holding all day and then closes his eyes. Prepares to lie like that all night without sleeping.

Then Harry speaks again. It’s low, but it isn’t a whisper like before, it’s firmer. Angrier. “If you did this just to hurt me then you’ve succeeded.”

Louis shifts round to look at him, but he’s staring at the ceiling now, gaze not so much as twitching when Louis moves. “I didn’t, I wouldn’t- not just to hurt you, I wouldn’t do that when I know what it’s like—”

“Yeah,” Harry says and, like the flick of a switch, his voice has gone all weak, shaky, again, “yeah, I didn’t think you’d—” he scrunches his nose up, sniffling, “I didn’t think you’d want to… break my heart like that. I couldn’t bear it if… if that’s why you did it. Not when I’ve seen how much I hurt you through this, I couldn’t- I didn’t think you’d want to do that to me too. I don’t think you’d do that.”

“I wouldn’t.”

Harry sniffles again. Wipes at his under-eyes. “No,” he says, “so it’s more like… feeling like we’re even, I guess. Is it? Was that the thought behind it or—”

“Harry, there really wasn’t much thought behind it at all,” Louis says, but then thinks for a second and adds; “but- maybe. Maybe, yeah, like- like feeling less inferior, I suppose. But it didn’t help and it was- just fucking _idiotic_.”

Harry presses his lips together. Nods. “Yeah,” he says, like everything Louis just said, he expected, “it’s just… I’m sorry, I know I have no right to react like this, but I just—” Louis opens his mouth to object, because he _has_ got the right, because this isn’t about what Harry did, Louis fucked someone else and as much as he’d love to relieve himself by blaming it on something or someone else, he knows he can’t. He knows it’s on him. Then Harry speaks again; “I just, uhm… I know I’m not supposed to say this, but I feel, just - really, _really_ sick at the thought of it. Knowing someone else has been inside of you.”

Louis knows he’s crying now, has been for a while. “Yeah,” he whispers, before he wipes at his cheeks and clears his throat, “if it’s any consolation, you’re bigger than him. Better, too.”

Harry covers his face in his hands. “Fuck’s sake, Louis.”

“Yeah. I’m sorry. I’m just, I’m really really _really_ sorry, it honestly meant nothing, it wasn’t even good, it wasn’t even- fucking _anything_ , Harry. Compared to you. To what it’s like with us, it- meant _nothing_.”

“Yeah, I know. I know it didn’t,” Harry says, hands sliding off his face, “but, like…” he shakes his head a little, then looks over at Louis, exhausted, “just can’t really help that it still kind of does. You know?”

And, no. Louis can’t argue with that. 


	15. Chapter 15

Things seem all right the following morning. Or, well, as all right as anything gets right now. Louis’ folded himself around Harry during the night, one arm linked around his belly, and Harry hasn’t pushed him off, even as he’s breathing like he’s been awake for hours.

Louis lies stiff in it for a moment, then dips in and presses a little kiss between Harry’s shoulder-blades.

Harry’s entire back tenses up.

Louis drops his forehead to the spot where he kissed. “Love you,” he says on a long sigh.

“Love you too,” Harry replies, fingers twitching where they loop around Louis’ arm, “you’re gonna be late for work if you don’t get up now.”

“Yeah.” Louis sits half-way up, then stops, nervous, and pets Harry’s arm, “you’re feeling all right or—”

“Yeah, I’m fine,” Harry mutters, but he won’t lift his face from where it’s half-way buried in his pillow, rest of it covered by his long hair.

Louis reaches down and tucks it behind his ear for him. “Okay,” he says, pressing a kiss to his temple, “love you.”

“Love you too,” Harry mutters, but he mostly sounds irritated with having to repeat himself, “- _go_ , you’re gonna be late.”   

Everything remains calm. Louis gets ready for work, Harry kisses him goodbye, texts him to remember to buy toilet-paper and milk and lube, cooks dinner in the evening and watches telly with him after. They get ready for bed and then they get into bed and then Louis shifts around, braver in the dark, and asks Harry _do you want to talk about any of it?_ and Harry tells him _no. There’s nothing to talk about_.

They fuck, doggystyle, and soon as they’re both finished, Harry rolls off and then that’s that. Then that’s the end of the day.

They have another two weeks full of those exact same days. Louis tries to talk to Harry, _really_ talk to him, tries to ask him what he wants, what he’s thinking, starts to understand just how hard it must’ve been back when the tables were turned, but then he thinks _no_. _No, this isn’t the fucking same, I don’t deserve to be treated like this, he fucked up first and then things snowballed and it’s not the same as what he did to me_. And, when he thinks that, he gets angry, mean, jabs at Harry just to get him to react.

Worst part is, he still doesn’t. He smiles without the eyes, kisses back when kissed, crawls onto Louis once the lights are off and jack-rabbits him and then goes to sleep. He doesn’t cry, and if he does he tries to hide it. He doesn’t tell Louis off or make him sleep on the couch or even just look at him like he’s utter scum once in a while.

So, Louis has no right to go around feeling as fucking miserable as he does.

“You have no right to feel sorry for yourself,” Eleanor tells him over the phone during his lunch-break one day, “it’s been, what, two weeks? He’s still processing. Give him time.”

“I know that,” Louis says, “I _know_ that, I just… I’m still angry at what he did. And I’m still worried about what _I_ did. And I haven’t got—” _anyone but you to talk to about it and you don’t even really know him so you wouldn’t understand, you only know half of us, you don’t know us together_ , “I haven’t got a clue what to do.”

He lies to Eleanor because otherwise he’d hurt her feelings. Or maybe he wouldn’t, _probably_ wouldn’t, but he can’t let himself risk it. There’s enough hurting going on in his life as it is.

“Just give him time,” she tells him again, and he can’t really use it for much, but he tells her thanks anyway.

 

*

 

 

That evening, just as Harry’s flicked off the lights, Louis asks him, for something like the millionth time in the past two weeks,  _how are you feeling? About things?_ If his voice comes out a little sharp, it’s only because he’s feeling so torn. Torn between anger, bitterness, resentment, everything that’s been stuck in his chest since before he fucked up too, and guilt, worry, constantly wondering whether Harry’s showers have doubled in length lately because he’s always crying when he’s in there.

Harry stretches, joints cracking audibly, and then mutters; “yeah, I’m feeling it.”

“What?”

Harry crawls closer, mouth finding Louis’, tongue pressing at his lips, hands going straight to his crotch, his arse.

Louis pushes him off. “No, that wasn’t—” he holds Harry back by the shoulders and looks him in the eye, “Harry, that wasn’t what I meant. Don’t act thick, you _know_ it wasn’t.”

He can tell by the way Harry’s gaze flicks away, just for a second, that he isn’t wrong. “Hm,” Harry says, instead of admitting it, and shifts back on his back again with a thump, “okay. Then what?”

“Just…” Louis shifts onto his side, tucking an arm under his pillow. Harry doesn’t move his gaze off the ceiling. “I feel like we haven’t talked a lot since… everything.”

“Hm.”

Louis resists a burning urge to punch him in the arm. “ _Harry_ ,” he says, “for fuck’s sake, you can’t shut me out like this.”

“‘M not shutting you out,” Harry says, and then he makes a noise like there’s more, but stops it before it comes out.

“Well, then, are you angry?” Louis hisses, “are you sad, are you- _what_? You’re not leaving, you’re still fucking me, I don’t know what the fuck you’re thinking, cause the only thing you won’t do with me is talk. You won’t fuckin’ talk to me, and- and we were supposed to go on a date and you’ve suddenly been tired every time I’ve mentioned it and you just- I don’t know. I don’t know. I don’t fucking know.”

Harry gives a long sigh. “I’m not angry,” he says, “and yes, I’m still here, I’m still fucking you, I don’t- I don’t know what more you want from me. Of course I’m bloody staying, what kind of a fucking hypocrite would I be if I left after you stayed through- everything?”

Louis feels his lips part, but he thinks he’s lost all his voice so he doesn’t speak.

“What?” Harry asks, looking over at him, “what, what are you thinking now? What, Louis, just—”

“Are you only staying because you feel obligated to?”

Harry’s brows draw together, but there’s something, there’s something behind his eyes that Louis doesn’t like. There’s half a second of silence too much before Harry answers; “no, of course not.”

“No?” Louis croaks.

Harry shakes his head, then takes him by the jaw and kisses him. “No, I- Louis, I love you, for fuck’s sake. That’s enough of a reason to stay, isn’t it?”

“Is it?”

Harry blinks. Before he answers, he blinks. “Yes, of course it is,” he says, just a little too late.

Louis lets Harry kiss him again then, lets himself melt into it and doesn’t object when Harry flips him onto his stomach and pulls him up on hands and knees and fucks him with one hand on each hip, hardly any skin-on-skin, no kisses at all. Once he’s done, he rolls over, mutters something along the lines of _we’ll talk about the date tomorrow, I promise_ and Louis says _okay_ even though he knows it’s a lie.

 

*

 

A couple of days later, Harry gets a call from Marie. He and Louis are sitting in the couch, watching telly like they always do when they eat dinner these days. They used to do that most of the time before too, but it’s never been a necessity like it is now. The idea of sitting at the dinner-table, across from one another, actually having to talk, actually having to look each other in the eye, it seems impossible now.

“I’ll just take this,” Harry says, before he heads off to the balcony.

Louis watches him through the glass-doors, picking at his lips, pacing back and forth. At one point he stops, turns and looks directly at Louis. Then he says something Louis doesn’t manage to lip-read.

Then he ends the call and comes back inside.

“Yeah?” Louis asks.

“Uhm…” Harry wavers in the middle of the room, phone still in his hand, gaze flicking from Louis to the telly and back again.

Louis mutes the telly. “Go on, what is it?”

“This weekend,” Harry starts, and then Louis knows what’s coming.

“Yeah, it’s fine,” he says, before Harry has a chance to elaborate.

They’d been talking, vaguely, about maybe possibly rearranging that date that never happened, maybe going to that restaurant this Saturday, but Louis knew it wasn’t going to happen anyway. Harry wasn’t putting any effort into it at all and Louis couldn’t really bring himself to either, because, well—  they can’t even eat together at their _own_ fucking dining-table.

“You didn’t know what I was going to say.”

 _You were going to tell me that Marie’s called you up and mentioned something about you spending two seconds in Charlie’s company and that you screamed out ‘yes, yes, I’ll come, any time, any place, I’ll be there!’ before she even finished her sentence_. “All right, then. What were you going to say?”

“Marie’s got a study-group-thing,” he says, and he doesn’t really have to explain any further than that, but he does; “and- and she might let me babysit. You know, full-on babysit without supervision. This is, like… I feel like this is a major step. Isn’t it?”

It takes a moment before Louis realises that Harry wants him to answer. “ _Yes_ ,” he exclaims, a bit too high-pitched, “I mean, yes. Yes, of course, that’s- that’s… sorry, what do you mean?”

“Just, like…” he drops his gaze, drags his toe around the carpet, shrugs a shoulder, “if she’ll let me babysit and I do well, she’ll probably let me do it again. And then, maybe, eventually… it might become more regular. We might be able to figure out a proper… arrangement.”

“Right,” Louis says. It hurts when he swallows. “Yeah, that’s- of course. Well, I think you should go. I mean, of _course_ you should go, that goes without a say.”

Harry nods. “Would you come with?”

“Not this time,” Louis says, because he just can’t. Not again, not already. “I think you’ll do all right without me. We’ll keep in contact. But… I can’t be bothered to go all the way up there again this weekend, I’ve got a lot of work, so… So, no, I think I’ll stay here.”

Harry nods again. “Okay,” he says, and for the first time since he came back in here, Louis’ a hundred percent able to read his expression; relief.

 

*

 

Friday night, they fuck on the couch because their movie ended and they couldn’t find anything remotely interesting to watch and it was too early to go to bed and they had nothing to say to one another and Harry’s crotch was brushing up against Louis’ bum anyway. Saturday morning, Harry has a spare half hour before he needs to leave for Sheffield, too much of an early bird like always, and he bends Louis over the kitchen-counter because they can’t manage enough small-talk to wait out the kettle as it brews.

But then, as they’re standing in the hallway and Harry’s toeing on his shoes, duffel-bag of t-shirts and toothbrush strapped across his chest, Louis can’t help but say what he thinks before he thinks about it; “please don’t do anything. Please don’t- touch her. Please.”

Harry’s head snaps up. “Lou- _is_ ,” he says, breathy, sad, “do you honestly think I’d—”

“No, I- I mean, I don’t know, I just—” he’s just feeling really anxious, really fucking terrified all of a sudden, “I just- just please, if she- just please don’t touch her or anything. I just need you to tell me you won’t.”

Harry un-straps his duffel bag and lets it drop to the floor. “Lou,” he says, and in one step he’s close enough to wrap Louis’ face up in his hands and tilt it back, “I love you. I’m going up there because of Charlie. She is the _only_ reason I’m going up there,” he leans down, lingers as his nose-tip brushes against Louis’ and, for a moment, just right then, Louis closes his eyes and feels close to him again. Then Harry presses a quick kiss to his lips, pulls back and says; “I won’t touch her. I don’t want to.”

Louis lets him go then. Makes him promise to call when he’s in Sheffield and then watches him until he disappears behind the lift-doors.

Then goes back into the empty flat and loses track of everything Harry just promised.


	16. Chapter 16

He pretends to be fine for a while. He isn’t sure what he’s doing it for, because there’s only one person left in this all too quiet flat and he certainly isn’t fooling him. He turns on the telly, just to have it running in the background. He paces between the couch and the kettle for three hours straight, pouring much too much sugar in his tea every time, just to feel like he’s giving himself a mood-boost.

All it does is elevate his anxiety-levels and makes his fingertips go throbby.

At some point, right around the right time, he receives two texts from Harry in the span of two seconds.

**H - in Sheffield now. Just checked into hotel and putting my bags in the room.**

**H - want me to text when I’m at marie’s?**

Louis texts him something vague back, not wanting to come off half as worried as he is, but also wanting to make it abundantly clear that Harry shall and must check in with him every step of the way or he’ll go out of his bloody mind.

If he hasn’t already, that is.

He sits on the couch, smoking cigarette after cigarette because Harry isn’t here to tell him off for doing that inside, or just doing it at all, and thinks about Harry and her. Some sick part of his brain has him convinced that if he graphically imagines the worst possible scenarios - them playing with the kid together, laughing and bonding over it, Harry looking at the kid that he so easily fell in love with and then up at the woman that looks like her, or the kid falling asleep and Marie convincing him to have a drink before he leaves, him saying no a few times, but then giving in, looking through old photo-albums together, opening up about their fucked-up relationships over a bottle of wine they shouldn’t have opened and one thing leading to another - it won’t hurt as much if it does end up becoming a reality. It won’t pull the rug out from under him like it did the first time.

Of course, it doesn’t help him in any way. At 5 PM, he’s called Eleanor three times even though he knows she’s at some fancy-schmancy fashion-soiree and can’t pick up. She has her own life, which he hardly knows anything about because he only rants about himself when he speaks to her. She’s probably sick of him at this point.

He finds himself dreading tomorrow. An entire Sunday full of nothing to do. Which, well- would be fine if he weren’t so worried about what Harry might be doing every second of every minute of every hour. He finds himself actually looking forward to going back to work on Monday.

 

*

 

Harry always keeps three bottles of wine in the fridge, just in case someone should pop by or he should need a little glass to get the writing-juices flowing.

By Sunday noon, Louis’ polished off all three; one last night and two since he woke. He’s stumbling round the flat in a haze, looking for his phone, when the door-phone buzzes.

“Wha’?” he asks, voice raspy from not speaking to anyone since Harry left.

“Harry?”

“Louis,” Louis says, “Harry’s gone. He isn’t here, he isn’t- who the fuck is this?”

“The fuck do you mean, ‘who is this’? It’s Zayn, what do you mean?”

Oh. Yeah. Now that he focuses, he realises it is. “Oh. I’m not- I’m… Harry isn’t here.”

“Yeah, I get that,” Zayn says, followed by a pause that Louis’ too drunk to figure out whether he’s supposed to fill, “well, are you going to buzz me up or what?”

“Oh.” Louis glances down himself. He’s only in his trackies, and he smells like sweat and wine and shit. “You wanna come up?”

“What do you mean, why the hell else would I be buzzin’ your door-bell?”

Right. Louis buzzes him up because he knows that if he doesn’t, Zayn’s next step would be calling up Harry and telling him something’s wrong.

He hurries to hide the bottles, throw out last night’s take-away boxes and move his duvet from the couch and back into the bedroom. He’s just in the middle of smell-testing t-shirts when he hears footsteps behind him.

He whirls around.

Zayn stands in the door, hands in his pockets, head a bit tilted. “Hey, mate.”

“What the fuck?!” Louis stumbles backwards into the wall, then slides down onto the bed and blinks a couple hundred times. “ _Shit_. Why would you just waltz in like that?”

Zayn shrugs a shoulder. “Door wasn’t locked.” His gaze glides down Louis, narrowed eyes studying him. “You look like shit.”

Louis gives a dry chuckle. He turns his attention to pulling on the dodgy-smelling t-shirt he still has cramped up in his hand. “Cheers, mate, love you too.”

Zayn doesn’t laugh. “You haven’t spoken to me in weeks.”

“You told me not to.”

Zayn sighs, dragged-out and exasperated. He doesn’t say anything again for a while. Louis doesn’t look up, can’t bring himself to, doesn’t initiate conversation, too drunk to be bothered with it, and just sits there, like a drunken idiot, staring at his own knee’s.

Eventually, Zayn does break the silence; “Harry gone and left you, then?”

“Only for the weekend. Or… maybe longer, I’m not sure.” Harry was too vague about when exactly he’d be back and Louis was too scared about asking him why. “I’m not sure.”

“Did you tell him, then? About fucking that bloke?”

Louis lifts his head then, and he must look worse than he hoped, because Zayn rolls his eyes and opens his mouth to comment on how fucking pissed he is. So, before he can, Louis blurts; “he cheated first.”

“Wha’?”

“Harry,” Louis says, throwing a wild hand out at nothing, “he fuckin’- fuckin’ fucked some fuckin’... woman.”

Zayn frowns. “He fucked some fucking woman?”

“He fucked some fuckin’... yeah. And he- yeah… fucked her up.”

“Fucked her up?”

“Fucked her- knocked her up.”

Zayn pauses at that. Louis dumps himself back on the bed, eyes falling shut. The room is spinning and Zayn feels miles away and he’s drunk enough to be numb, but if numb is seeing Harry with her every time he closes his eyes, then he’d rather be in terrible pain.

“Hey,” Zayn says, and he’s suddenly close, suddenly touching Louis’ forehead, smoothing his hair back, “sleep this off and then we’ll talk, yeah?”

He stays for a moment at the side of the bed. He’s got his phone out and Louis can’t see what he’s doing because the screen is too blurry, but he grabs him by the arm and says; “please don’t tell Harry. Please just- don’t.”

Zayn looks at him for a moment, sceptical. Then he flicks his phone off and nods. “Okay. But we’re going to talk when you’re sober.”

“Yeah.”

Louis falls asleep to the sounds of the telly in the other room, and Zayn making himself a cup of tea.

 

*

 

It’s dark out when he wakes. His head is pounding and it takes him a moment to regain normal consciousness, but once he does he can still hear the telly in the other room.

He groans as he shifts around, and feels dizzy when he stands, a little drunk still. He wraps the duvet around himself and pads into the livingroom.

Zayn is sprawled out on the couch, three separate cups on the coffee-table and a pizza rested on his chest. He mutes the telly when he sees Louis. “Oh. Hi.”

“Hi.”

He pushes himself up to sit properly. “You feeling better?”

Louis plops down at the end of the couch. “You mean, feeling less drunk?”

“Well- yeah.”

“A bit.”

“Hm.” Zayn gives a little smile and nudges his pizza-box at Louis, “eat some.”

Louis has a slice and it’s cold, but it’s got pepperoni on it and it’s pizza so he eats. “Thanks. Did you order it?”

“No, it just magically appeared out of the blue.”

Louis grunts and finishes the slice. He reaches out for the mugs, finds soda in one and downs it.

“So, where the hell is he?” Zayn asks.

Louis sighs. He knew he was going to get asked and he knew he wasn’t going to have the willpower to come up with a lie, but it’s still a struggle, having to tell the truth. It’s still a struggle, having to look Zayn in the eye and admit that he was right, eight and half years ago, when he told Louis _you’re better off going for someone else_ _, he’s just not wired that way, just give it up now cause he’s only gonna hurt you in the end_.

“He’s up in Sheffield.”

“What? Why?”

Louis has to look away before he says it. “He’s with his kid.”

A second passes. Then Zayn gives a snorty chuckle. “What?”

Louis forces himself to meet his eye. And, maybe because he’s still a bit drunk, maybe because he’s held it in for too long, maybe just because he’s looking at a friend, it all spills. From the very start, every little detail, every little thing, he tells Zayn it all. He talks and he talks and he doesn’t stop for a second to check the reaction because he knows that if he did, he might not want to go on. He just spills. Everything.

And, once he’s finally done, he looks Zayn in the eye again. And it’s just— relief. Utter relief.

“C’mere,” Zayn says, reaching an arm round his shoulders, “c’mere, give us a cuddle.”

Louis lets himself be squeezed for a moment, then wriggles out of it. He glances at the telly without really looking, and then out through the window for a bit.

Zayn rests back where he lied before, going quiet.

Eventually, Louis turns again, ready to say something more. “I’m scared he’ll sleep with her again. I’m not- I don’t know whether that’s because I think he can’t help it if she comes onto him or because I just don’t trust him anymore. I don’t know.”

“Well,” Zayn says, “no matter what happens, I’m on your side, Lou.”

“I fucked up badly too.”

“Yeah. Which is why I was plannin’ on telling Harry what you’d done when I came here today cause I just couldn’t stand knowing. But… the way I see it now, it’s like this,” he says, “you and Harry were together. Like, properly together, like man and wife kind of shit, right? And then, out of fuckin’ nowhere, Harry goes and sticks his dick in some random woman. And then doesn’t tell you for two years.”

“Thanks for the re-cap,” Louis mutters, “it’s always nice to be reminded.”

Zayn pets his knee. “No, sorry. Sorry. But, like… literally, there was _no_ reason for him to go and do that, other than that, like… he found the woman hot and wanted a shag and then he was stupid enough to forget about the condom. But he still should’ve kept his dick in his pants. He still should’ve been a grown man about it and left the situation, like… But he didn’t.”

“I know.”

“And then, years later, he tells you and you get your heart broken. And you go a bit mental from it or summat—”

“Wouldn’t say I went mental.”

Zayn shakes his head. “Doesn’t matter, it’s just- you lost the plot for a bit. Yeah? And you were hurt and angry and you fucked some bloke - in my bed and jizzed on my pillow, but we’ll save that talk for another day. But you’d never _ever_ have done that if H hadn’t started shit off. So, in my opinion, if you’re asking—”

“I’m not.”

“In my opinion, _he’s_ the arsehole. He’s a fuckin’ idiot, fuckin’ cheating piece of shit. And you- well, you’re a cheating piece of shit too, but like- yours can be forgiven, you could be trusted again. You’d never have done it like he did. Not out of the blue, not just cause you could. Harry, he just went and fucked her cause he wanted to. How the hell are you ever gonna trust him again after all that? How do you even know it’s not something he does often? Fucks around on you? You don’t.”

He stops, finally, and Louis feels like crying or screaming or asking for another hug, but he doesn’t. All he does is mutter; “well, I don’t fully agree with everything you just said—”

“Course you don’t. Otherwise you wouldn’t still be here. Unless of course you’re just too bloody chicken-shit to leave.”

Louis’ jaw drops. He stares at Zayn for a couple second, waits for an apology or just any sign of remorse, but it doesn’t come. “Fuck you.”

“Yeah, sure, go ahead, take it out on me.”

“ _Fuck_ you, you don’t know the first thing about actually sticking it out with someone, you’ve never stayed faithful to anyone but yourself your entire life.”

This time, Zayn’s jaw drops. “Fuck you,” he says, “fuck you, I was trying to sympathize with you and then you- fuck you.” He pushes off the couch and begins to march off. He stops halfway through the room and spins around and points a finger at Louis. “and you know what? At least I’m not like fuckin’ Harry, going round fuckin’ random women and then comin’ home to you, playing all happy ever after, trying to have his cake and eat it too. At least I don’t pretend to be something I’m not.”

Louis grabs a mug off the coffee-table and hurls it at him. “Fuck off!” he screams, “fuck off, get out, fuck off!”

The door slams loudly behind Zayn.

Louis sits for a moment, processing what just happened, and then gets up to find another bottle of something.


	17. Chapter 17

Zayn calls him when he’s just popped a bottle of champagne left over from last New Year's.

“What?”

“I’m sorry.”

Louis licks champagne-foam off his hand. “Why?”

“For… assuming things.”

“Good for nothing, that,” Louis mutters, before he has a big swig of the overly sweet liquid, “assuming things.”

“No,” Zayn sighs into the phone, “I just—”

“You just what?”

“Can never comprehend why people who can’t keep their dick in their pants would even get into monogamous relationships to begin with.”

Louis puts the bottle down. “You know what I can’t comprehend?” he asks, “how you’ve known me and Harry for as long as we’ve been together and the _second_ you hear one thing going wrong you automatically assume that everything’s just gone to shit and we might as well say fuck it to everything we’ve built up together over the past eight years.”

“Right.” Zayn sighs again. “Right, you’re right. S’why I called to apologise. I said what I thought when I thought it. I didn’t think it through. I apologise.”

“It’s all right,” Louis tells him, mostly because he’s just had another big two swigs of champagne.

“And, like… I guess it just set me off because I walked into your flat in the middle of the afternoon and you were passing out drunk and H wasn’t there to take care of you or nothing.”

Right. Louis puts the bottle down again. “Well, I’m fine now. And I’m a big boy, I can take care of myself. And also, on that note, ehm, thanks for… tucking me in.”

Zayn gives a little chuckle. “Anytime.”

“And you know what, I know it might’ve looked like… like he just fucked it all and left me behind to go up and see her, but that’s really not what it’s like. He’s visiting the kid - _just_ the kid - and then he’s coming back tomorrow, I think.”

“Okay. Well, then I got things wrong, I’m sorry.”

“Yeah.”

 

*

 

Except when Louis goes to bed alone that night and Harry hasn’t texted in hours, he doesn’t believe his own words for a second. He can’t sleep, even with a bottle of shitty champagne stirring in his gut. He can’t stop wondering what Harry’s doing, whether he’s thinking about Louis right now, or whether he’s still with her. If he is, the kid’s asleep and it’s just Harry and her. Just the two of them, sitting in her little sofa, all cosy.

He checks his phone again. No new messages.

He types out _goodnight_ , and then deletes. Then _will you be back tomorrow?_ and deletes. Then _how are you?_ and— deletes.

In the end, he goes with his first instinct and sends the _goodnight_.

When he checks his phone first thing the following morning, he’s received three messages in response.

**H - goodmorning :)**

**H - sorry didnt see it till this morning, was asleep. how are you?**

And then a longer one:

**H - called you this morning, but couldnt get hold of you. Will quickly explain here, but call me back when you can still. Marie’s study-group thing is actually something she’s doing through the week, turns out, and she was going to have her mum come and babysit but since things went well this weekend she’ll let me babysit for the week. If I stay up here in sheffield until friday. how do you feel about that? would it be all right with you, I know you’re working anyway so ?**

Louis re-reads it a few times. He doesn’t know what he expected, nor what he wanted. On one hand, he’d hoped for Harry to come home today or tomorrow, just so he’d know exactly where he was and who he was with and, most importantly, who he wasn’t with. On the other, being together lately hasn’t even felt like being together.

He types out a quick **text u later** and then, for once in his life, thanks the lord that he’s got a full day’s work ahead of him.

Not that he concentrates much when he’s there.

Once he gets out and gets home, he finally allows himself to check his phone. There are two missed calls from Harry and two new messages.

**H - will come home tonight if u dont reply. its ok if u want me to, i just need to know before i check out of hotel.**

**H - babe.**

Louis pulls himself together and calls him back.

Harry picks up on the first ring. “Yeah?”

“Jesus, that was fast.”

“Yeah, well,” he drawls, “I was waiting.”

Louis nods, even though Harry can’t see it. “Well. I just rung to tell you that it’s fine, you can- obviously, you can stay for as long as you want, it’s not up to me.”

“But—”

“But what?”

“We’re gonna be all right, then?” he asks, after a beat, “it’s not gonna be, like… you freezing me out for the entire week and then blowing up on me the second I come home?”

Louis has to take a second just to calm his temper at that. “No,” he grits out, “ _no_. It won’t be like that. We’ll keep in contact and you’ll come back Friday and then we’ll be okay. We’ll be okay. I’ll be okay here, it’ll all be—  okay.”

“Okay.”

 

*

 

Okay. Okay.

He goes to work and he’s okay. He comes home and eats, shits, wanks off to porn, watches telly, wanks off to more porn and then goes to bed and he’s okay. He receives messages every day from Harry, just quick little things like _back at the hotel now_ and _they’re showing Love Actually on Channel 4 right now, just FYI_ and, late one evening, _what are you doing?_ paired with a winkey-face and a dickpic. And Louis’ okay. 

Thursday, Louis receives no messages at all and— he isn’t okay. He makes a point of not reaching out first, but the only thing he gets out of that is a night of no sleep and just staring at a message-less phone-screen. He can’t think at work the next day, can’t do anything at all but bite his nails down and stare at his phone.

Around 3 PM, he finally receives a text.

**H - will be home around 6 pm. will buy indian on the way home for us**

And, just as Louis’ finished reading that one, another ticks in:

**H - love you**

And, it’s terrible, but the only thing Louis can think of when he sees those two words is guilt. Guilt, because he’s done something. Guilt, he must’ve touched her. Guilt, he’s gone and fucked her and now he’s overcompensating. Out of guilt. Guilt guilt guilt, it’s written all over that text.

It’s written all over Harry’s face, when he arrives home an hour later than he said he would. “So sorry,” he pants, tumbling into the hall, duffel and take away-bag dropping to the floor, “sorry, there was, like- a massive queue at the place and I… hh… traffic.”

“Did you take the stairs or summat?”

“No, I just…” Harry shuffles out of his coat and puffs a lock of hair out of his mouth and bends down to unlace boots, “tired.”

Louis nods. Leans back against the wall, arms crossing over his chest, eyes looking Harry up and down. The flush in his cheeks could be from the cold evening-wind outside. It could also be from having fucked Marie. The little tear in his bottom lip could be from mindlessly chewing at it while driving. It could also be from having fucked Marie. The guilt-ridden look on his face could be attributed to nothing but his lateness. It could also be—

“Did you fuck her?”

Everything sort of falls silent at that.

Harry freezes where he’s leaning down, still fiddling with his bootlaces. It’s a second, maybe two, maybe a fucking eternity, before he finally lifts his head and looks up at Louis. “ _No_!” he exclaims, incredulous, “no, what the- what the fuck, you—”

“Sorry,” Louis cuts through, spinning around on himself, dragging a hand through his hair, regretting, “sorry, that wasn’t- sorry.”

And, even though Harry doesn’t say anything more to that, changes the topic onto the Indian curry that’s going cold, Louis knows he’s ruined the mood. Louis knows things aren’t going to be cosy, light, casual, or even just remotely okay.

Then again, it might’ve been like that anyway.

He set the table over an hour ago, wanting them to sit down and try to talk for a bit, candles and everything, but now he regrets. Now all he wants to do is turn up the telly and sink into the couch and not have to think about the constant pit of anxiety in his gut, not have to look at Harry and not hear anything but _didyoufuckherdidyoufuckherdidyoufuckher_ , a neverending loop in his head.

“Eat,” Harry says at some point, nudging his plastic-fork at Louis’ box of rice and creamy orange chicken, “s’your favourite.”

Louis nods. Stirs the food around a bit, makes a stuck-together clump of rice crumble apart and then has a piece of chicken because he can feel Harry’s gaze burning through his skull.

“S’good,” he mutters, and it’s so hard to swallow, but it’s worse to look up and look at Harry and not scream out  _did you fuck her, did you touch her, did you lie to me when you said you didn’t?_

They hardly talk through the entire meal. Not because it isn’t uncomfortable not to, not because they don’t both try to - _hm, I like this green stuff, that’s a new thing they’ve added, isn’t it?_ ’s and _s’nice with the candles, cosy, don’t you think?_ ’s and other little things that don’t feel like poking a needle into a massive infested cyst, but also don’t make for conversation lasting past the ten-second mark.

At some point, Louis just can’t take it any more, the sound of his own chewing and Harry’s feet shifting under the table driving him mad.

“Gotta get some water,” he says, even though he’s got half a glass of coke standing right in front of him, “- throat itch, fizzy won’t do,” he adds, despite the fact that Harry didn’t so much as lift his head at it.

Letting himself into the kitchen and closing the door behind him is a miserable relief. He walks over, flicks on the faucet, then watches the water run cold and keep running, hands clenched around the edge of the counter. When he finally pulls himself together to actually find a glass and fill it, Harry’s been out there long enough to know that he’s purposely stalling.

He can’t quite bring himself to care. They don’t seem to be in a place to call each other out on anything tonight, so he’ll be fine, for the time being.

“You didn’t want any, did you?” he asks, just because he can’t come back into the room again without something, just anything, to get them started.

Harry isn’t eating anymore. He’s chewing on something, but it’s probably just his own tongue, or some hard tasteless old piece of gum, and he’s got his face rested sideways in his hand, gaze glazed-over. “No thanks,” he murmurs, and then he pushes his chair back and stands without looking at Louis, properly. “I’m actually- I’m just gonna go have a shower. Long car-ride, so...”

“Yeah, course. You- you go do that.”

Louis doesn’t sit back down until Harry’s gone into the other room.

When he does, it’s with a thump, tired and sad and water splashing over the edges of his glass and down his arm.

He drinks the remains of it, listening for the shower-faucet until it finally goes off. A few months back, he’d hop in the shower with Harry, if they both needed one at the same time, just for convenience and cuddles.

Now, he waits until Harry’s out of the room before he even goes to brush his teeth.

When he’s showered, shaved, flossed, scrubbed his teeth to death and gone through a whole range of Harry’s skin-care products, he finally runs out of things to waste time with and walks out of the bathroom.

Harry’s in bed, naked, at least from the hips and up, rest of him covered by the duvet. He puts his phone away when he notices Louis walking in. “Hey.”

“Hey.”

Louis settles into bed beside him, looking around for his book, but he must’ve forgotten it in the livingroom. It’s all the same anyway, because he wasn’t that set on reading, he only wanted to be sure he had something to do with his mind, lest Harry should want to keep the lights on for a bit longer.

But, Harry flicks the lights off.

“S’okay, right?” he asks, once he’s already shuffled down under the sheets, light-switch out of reach, “you weren’t gonna read or—”

“No, it’s- s’fine. I’m tired anyway,” Louis says, and it’s true, but not in the sense that he feels he could sleep yet. Ever.

He lies on his back, staring at the insides of his eyelids, pretends like he doesn’t know Harry’s doing the exact same thing.

At some point, Harry gives a long sigh and then rolls over. He comes closer, shift by shift, and then, in one and the same move, puts his mouth to Louis’ neck and hand to his crotch. He isn’t gentle about it, the initial wariness cancelled out by greedy impatience soon as he’s sure Louis won’t push him off. His teeth nip at Louis’ skin, just a little too hard every second time, hand only kneading at his bulge till he’s sure Louis’ hard enough that he won’t say no to anything.

Louis isn’t any better himself. He closes his eyes and locks Harry in-between his thighs, pulls the hairband out of his hair and digs his fingers into the tangled mess of it and revels in every little thing that hurts just a bit too bad to be fun.

They don’t talk at all, aside from _turn over_ and _d’you need prep or can I just put it in?_ and _no, you- you can- just get in me_.

Normally, it starts out slow. No matter how rough it gets within moments, they always start out slow, just to give Louis a second. Tonight, Harry pushes all the way in with a grunt, one hand holding Louis by the hip and the other going up to grab onto the headboard above him, and then he starts to pound in, hard. It’s rougher than it’s been before, violence behind every thrust and Louis has to grab hold of the headboard too, just to hold his body up.

But, it’s all right. It’s the way he wants it tonight, just on the wrong side of too much, intense enough to forget about anything that isn’t physical.

It’s all right, until Harry starts to spew filth in that horribly deep, hoarse voice he only gets when the he’s so into it he can’t even remember his own name. “Take it,” he says, “take it, come on, does it hurt, huh?” he grabs Louis by the back of the hair and yanks his head back, thrusts into him so hard he shouts, “does it hurt?”

“Yeah,” Louis croaks, voice absolutely shot.

“Well, _ungh_ , you’re gonna take it anyway,” Harry spits, just as he lands a stinging slap to Louis’ left arse-cheek, “you’re gonna take me till I come, don’t care how bad it hurts, you’re just gonna take me.”

“Yeah,” Louis manages, as he gets a hand on his own dick and starts to jerk, “fuck yeah, _ah_ \- ow, _ah_ , yeah, fuck me.”

“Fuck, _ah_ —” Harry takes his hand off the headboard in favour of holding Louis by both hips and fucks into him faster, fast enough that Louis can’t hold onto the headboard either, can’t even manage to jerk himself, and he slumps into his own arms instead, just letting his arse get pummeled into.

Harry reaches round and takes hold of his dick.

“Come for me,” he says, and his voice is fucking—  _gone_ , the tips of his hair sliding up and down the back of Louis’ shoulders, skin slappy with sweat as he slams up against Louis, “come on, come for me, come on,” he keeps on, and Louis knows it’s because he’s about to come too, and he won’t want to bother with getting Louis off once he’s finished, so he tells Harry to go jerk him faster, and he does, but then he also spits out; “such a little slut, you just can’t get enough, can you?”

“No,” Louis pants, just because Harry’s jerking him too good to ever want it to stop, “no, can’t- _ah_ \- can’t get enough of you.”

“Of me,” Harry echoes, and there’s something behind all the breathiness, almost mocking, “can’t get enough _cock_ ,” he says, and somewhere in the middle of it he’s managed to get Louis over the edge with his hand, so Louis hardly hears the next thing he says over his own moans, but then he still does, “you’ll take fuckin’ _anyone_ , just as long as they’ve got a cock, you’ll get on your fuckin’- _ungh_ \- fuckin’ hands and knees, cause you’re such a fuckin’- _ah_ \- fuckin’ whore for it, _ungh_ —”

Louis lies plastered to his own arms, panting so hard his entire back moves with it, head twisted just enough that he can peek an eye at Harry pounding into him still.

He’s a fucking mess, flushed from his chest up to his temples, dripping with sweat, hair clinging to the side of his face, muscles convulsing under his fern leaf-tattoo’s. Louis catches his gaze for a moment, no trace of green left in them, and then Harry cuts it away, moves it down to where he’s fucking into him.

“Does it hurt?” he pants, nails digging into the flesh of Louis’ hips like he wants it to, “does it hurt, yeah? S’it hurt to be a fucking whore?”

He’s so gone with it Louis knows there’s nothing in it. They’ve done this before, they’ve said these kinds of things, Louis’ said worse in the heat of the moment, things he’d never ever say, or mean, elsewhere. Louis knows there’s nothing in it and yet— he just can’t bring himself to remember. “Well, then fucking _come_ already,” he hears himself yell, “bet it didn’t take this fuckin’ long with her.”

Harry’s gaze snaps up, a hard puff of air falling from his lips. His thrusts come to a halt, eyes locked on Louis’. Louis still can’t tell what he’s thinking.

It feels like ages before Harry finally looks away again.

“You’re fucking pathetic,” he says, before he resumes to fucking Louis for another fifteen seconds and then comes, nails set deep in his skin.

He hardly leaves a second for his come to pump out before he pulls out and thumps onto his back beside him.

And, the only thing Louis can think, as he collapses completely, face in his arms, is the same as he’s been thinking all night.

“Did you fuck her?”

“I swear to god if you ask me that _one_ more time, I’ll fucking—”

“No, it’s not that fucking unreasonable,” Louis snaps, not half as heavy as he thought all of a sudden, jerking round to look at Harry, “it’s not that fucking unreasonable cause you did it once, what the fuck is to stop you from doing it again, huh? I’ve no bloody idea what you’ve been doing all week, it’s not that fucking unreasonable that I’d be worried about it, Harry.”

“Well, what the fuck do you want me to do?!” Harry screams, shoving off the mattress and sitting up, “what the fuck do you want me to do, you didn’t wanna come with, you don’t believe me when I tell you I didn’t touch her, you- you- I’ve— _fuck_.”

He goes to his wrist for a hair-band, but the only one he had was the one Louis pulled out of his hair earlier and threw to the floor. It’s petty how smug it makes him feel, just for a second.

Harry shakes his hair out and pushes his back by hand-force instead. “I’m- I’m at the end of the fuckin’ rope right now,” he says, “I mean, what am I supposed to fucking say? You tell me it’s okay for me to go, but that I can’t touch her. I tell you I wont and I don’t, but then I come back and you ask me if I did and you don’t believe me when I say I didn’t. What the fuck do I do then? What else have I got? I can’t make you trust me.”

He stares at Louis for a few seconds, wide-eyed and panting. Then he drops his face into his hands, rubbing at it.

Louis watches him with furrowed brows, unsure whether he wants to yell and throw something or just break down crying. In the end, he’s just too tired for any of it. Done too fucking much of it lately. “Harry,” he says, voice half-gone, but steady still, “you’ve fucked me, like… twice a day since you found out about me and that bloke.”

Harry looks up, and raises his brows at him, like _yeah, what’s your point?_

“You’ve fucked me twice a day and you’ve not fucked me while I faced you one single time,” Louis says, “that’s not normal. That’s not normal, for us.”

“Well, you’ve got a voice, use it if you want something differently, you’re a grown fucking man.”

But that’s not it. That’s intentionally averting the point. “I’ve asked you how you felt about what happened, but you haven’t wanted to talk about it. I’ve tried not to pry too much because you’ve stayed and I haven’t wanted to bring it up and risk getting on your nerves about, but Harry,” he says, “you’re obviously affected. You’ve never— you’ve never called me names like that when we fuck, you- not like that. It’s like you’re acting a part or summat, I don’t know, it’s like you’re putting up a front, you’ve never been- like that with me. It’s not nice.”

Harry rolls his eyes. “Oh, please don’t get all fuckin’ victim-y on me. If I’m acting a part then you are too, because I _heard_ you moaning how much you fuckin’ loved it.”  

“Yeah, cause it’s nice when we- it’s sexy, but you- it’s not nice if… if it’s just out of resentment. That’s just not healthy.”

“All right,” Harry says, plopping back onto his back.

Louis expects him to say something more, but then he doesn’t.

In the end, curiosity gets the better of him and he breaks. “All right, _what_?”

“All right, I’m too tired to fight.”

“Well, I’m not,” Louis says, too irritated to be tired, “tell me what the fuck’s going on. Are you- what, is it cause of what I did or is it cause- cause you want to fuck her or—”  

Harry throws the duvet off. “ _That’s_ it,” he snaps, marching for the bedroom door, “you’re just-” he kicks at something on the floor and then rips the door open, “too _fucking_ much.”

He slams the door behind him. Louis lies stiff in his spot, and doesn’t miss the sound of furniture getting kicked, and something, probably Louis’ book, getting thrown into the wall.

After a while, the room settles down, though, and Louis stops fearing he’ll suddenly hear front door slamming shut. He falls asleep that night, clutching the sheets not to go in and beg Harry back to bed. Or maybe scream at him some more.

 

*

 

He wakes feeling guilty. Sore-fucked and guilty. Harry hasn’t come back to bed during the night and when he pads into the living-room, he finds him where he has far too many times lately; asleep on the couch. He’s on his back, mouth left softly open, snoring. On the floor by the wall lies Louis’ book, quite clearly having been launched across the room last night like suspected. The bookshelf seems to have been given a bit of a shove as well.

But, Harry’s still here. That’s the most important part.

Until his phone buzzes on the coffee-table, that is.

It’s just lying there, face-up, blue-ish light screaming at Louis, fucking begging for his attention.

And, he can’t help himself. He’s pathetic, just like Harry told him last night, he’s pathetic and he just can’t help himself.

**Nick - can get Tony to pop by and pick you up if u need a breather. Up to you, Harry, its your life, he isnt forcing you to stay.**

Louis takes a slow breath in, gut tightening and twisting up. He knows what it’s about. He knows what Nick’s offering that for, he doesn’t need to scroll back through the conversation to get that, he isn’t a fucking idiot.

He still does though.

He glances over at Harry to check he’s still sleeping, as if the constant snoring wasn’t enough confirmation, and then looks through the messages. He only means to go back to last night, just to see what Harry said about him, just to see how much he shares with fucking Nick.

He ends up getting caught on a text from just a little bit earlier. It’s sent approximately forty minutes before Harry came home last night.

**Harry - parked now. Have been for ten minutes straight. Cant pull myself together to go up there**

**Nick - hold on 1 sec and ill call you**

Then it seems like they’ve spoken on the phone. For over half an hour. Louis bites his lip, scared to read the following text. In the end, he still does it.

**Harry - thanks mate.**

**Harry - its also the fucking that worries me. Its like getting off into some random at the club these days. I cant look at it the same or i cant do it or it makes me too sick**

**Harry - ill just give it another 5 mins then ill go up there.**

**Nick - yeah i know H. But dont fuck him if you feel so sick about it then. Just focus on eating some food and not fighting too much ?**

**Harry - yeah. thanks**

**Harry - but fucking him feels like the only thing we have left right now and I cant even do that anymore without feeling sicked out by him cause he let some other bloke up him**

**Harry - i hate that i feel like this, i know im a fucking hypocrite.**

**Nick - well its not something you've got control over, is it? Just dont fuck him if you cant get your head in the right space. Give it some time. Try to chat or something, focus on other stuff for a while.**

**Nick - and go the fuck up there already, you just said on the phone you were supposed to be home an hour ago ?**

The texts end there. For a few hours.

After the fight, Harry must’ve gone out onto the balcony or waited until Louis was asleep and then called Nick up to blow steam off, judging from the following texts;

**Harry - thanks again. sorry to load off on you like this.**

**Nick - no problem Harry. Just get some sleep.**

**Harry - yeah. Goodnight, sleep well and thank you**

**Harry - I just feel like im staying round right now cause he stayed for me and I cant be that much of a fucking hypocrite but I also cant even look him in the eye and he knows somethings wrong.**

**Nick - give it time, Harry. He’s working on getting over stuff for you. You can do the same for him. You love him.**

**Harry - too bloody much, thats why it makes me so sick**

That’s the last one before the one Nick sent just now.

Louis flicks the phone off. Sits down on the coffee-table slowly and stays for a moment, just wringing his hands around.

Then, he drops his face into his hands and starts to fucking cry again.

It’s mostly soundless, but it wouldn’t matter if it weren’t, because Harry isn’t sleeping anymore. He’s been watching Louis through the last of the messages and since he sat down, so quiet himself that Louis thinks he might’ve purposely been holding his breath.

Now he sits up, checks his phone, and then lets go of a long breath and puts his hands on Louis’ thighs and says; “I love you, but I think I might have to leave you.”

Louis can’t manage to lift his head, but something inside him breaks. The last little bit left of that stupid kid inside him, genuinely thinking love was all they needed.

“I think we’ve just hurt each other too much to keep going, babe,” Harry goes on, hands shaking round Louis’ thighs, thumbs tapping frantically at his skin, “I think it’s- I think that, uhm—” even his voice is trembling, fighting on every word not to crack, “I think that if you look up right now and tell me you think that isn’t true, then I’ll stay and try some more.”

It sounds like he’s going to say more right away, but then he doesn’t. Then he stops, shaky breaths and fingers cramping up around Louis’ thighs. It feels like the moment drags on forever and, right then, Louis’ feels the heaviest he ever has, like just lifting his head to tell Harry _stay_  seems the most insurmountable task in the world.

In the end, he’s waited too long.

“Okay,” Harry says, no voice at all, “I’ll figure something out. I’ll, uhm- I’ll pack some of my stuff now and…” he stops himself, swallowing loudly, “I think it’s just too much now. But, just know, that, uhm,” he scratches at Louis’ thighs, sniffles and clears his throat. His voice is raw, hoarse, when he finally says; “if it were just about the love and nothing else, then I think we’d have lasted forever.”

He presses a soft kiss to Louis’ shivering thigh and then gets up and starts to pack his bags.


	18. Chapter 18

He doesn’t move off the coffee-table. He stays seated there, legs tripping under his elbows, face in his hands. He isn’t crying anymore. Maybe his body’s gone into some sort of shock-state, prohibiting him from doing anything, saying anything, prohibiting him from anything but sitting right here, listening to Harry rummage around in the other room.

He has no idea how long it’s been when Harry finally comes out, but his thighs have gone numb where he’s kept his elbows rested.

“Lou,” Harry says, and it’s weak, small, like part of him doesn’t want Louis to look up.

He does anyway, and it hurts, a bit like a stab to the chest. He’s got the biggest duffel they own strapped across his chest, barely zipped all the way round with how much clothes he’s frantically stuffed it with. He’s in a hurry to leave and not come back for as long he can manage.

“Well,” is all Louis manages to say. He swallows down _please don’t leave me, please please please, stay with me, even if we’re miserable, please just stay_ , because he knows that if he didn’t, if he did ask any of that, Harry might say yes. And it’d only be out of guilt.

“Well,” Harry says, cutting his eyes away from Louis, down to his shifting feet. The crooks of his mouth are twitching like he’s fighting not to cry. “Tony’s downstairs, so... I guess I’ll get going.”

Louis nods, even though Harry doesn’t see it. A sudden pain in his palm warns him that he’s been digging his nails into it a bit too hard, for a bit too long without realising. He ignores it. Presses down harder. “Goodbye, then.”

_Fucking leave already._

_Fucking stay, please, baby._

“Okay,” Harry says, like he’s just made his mind up once again, “okay, well— okay. Okay.” He makes a clicking sound with his mouth, shifts weight again, says, “okay” one more time and then turns and heads out.

There’s a tumble of shoes and keys and sniffles in the hall, then the door opening, then silence, suffocating stretched-out silence, and then finally movement again. Then the front-door closes behind Harry.

And, for the first time in eight years, Louis finds himself alone. _Really_ alone.

 

*

 

Four hours after Harry’s gone, Louis hasn’t moved much at all, except for shifting his bum from the coffee-table to the couch and getting up on the odd occasion to have a piss or a smoke. He hasn’t cried since the door closed behind Harry, but he hasn’t eaten or even so much as smiled at his favourite episode of The Office when it came on, either.

Mostly, he feels like he’s stuck inside a bubble. Maybe it’s because he hasn’t spoken to anyone, maybe it’s because his mind won’t let him accept the fact that Harry’s really gone, his subconscious taking over as a sort of self-preservation.

Maybe he’s just emptied every last alcoholic beverage they had left in the flat.

He’s drunk enough to feel numb, but not enough to feel stupid enough not to know how much he’ll hurt soon as he sobers up.

He considers popping down to the corner shop, stocking up on smokes and drink and all the other stuff that Harry would’ve frowned at him for indulging in at home, inside, when he was here. He’s a free man now after all, with no one to tell him what he can and can’t do, he thinks bitterly, as he stumbles around looking for his wallet.

Maybe he’s a bit drunker than he thought.

He ends up knocking backwards into the armrest of the couch and then just letting his entire body fall down with it. He’ll buy his substances in the morning. It’s a Sunday tomorrow and he’s got it all to himself anyway.

 

*

 

He wakes with a dry mouth and an arm twisted awkwardly under his body. It’s so dead he can’t move it for a minute and when it finally starts to come alive again, it goes into a terrible cramp. It’s dark out and he catches a look of his reflection in the window, cursing and hissing at his aching arm, and he looks _fucking_ pathetic.

He showers, just hot enough that it hurts, pulls on some pants even though he’s all alone, force of habit, and then goes to bed.

 

*

 

It’s when he wakes in the morning that the bubble finally bursts.

He blinks a few times, clears his throat, shifts onto his belly and sprawls out on the big empty mattress. For a second he doesn’t think anything of it all; he’s woken up alone in bed so many times lately anyway.

Then it hits him. Reality.

He’s alone, _really_ alone, and Harry isn’t coming back to him, and it’s no use asking him to. It’s too late, it’s too much, they’ve fucked it up, both of them, they couldn’t come back from it, it’s too much now. Eight years of his life, the only life he’s known for nearly a decade, it’s over. It’s really over.

And— it hits him in the gut first, a horrible, horrible ache, and he crumbles in on himself, claws at the sheets and bites his pillow as his eyes begin to water. It goes up through his chest, his throat, up to the back of his teeth, equal parts painful and terrifying. He’s screaming into the pillow, he can’t catch his breath, he can’t breathe at all, he’s hyperventilating, he’s all alone in this big, big, terrible bed.

He screams out Harry’s name because he’s dying, he really thinks he might be dying, and he wants to be held, wants to be cradled, squeezed, kissed, grounded, by Harry, _only_ by Harry. It has to be by him or it won’t help, it won’t make a difference, but it _can’t_ be by him, he can’t have that anymore— he can’t have it any more at all, any of him, ever.

He’s taken Harry’s smell for granted for nearly eight years of his life and now he’s sniffing his fucking pillow like he’ll die if he doesn’t.

 

*

 

Monday, he calls in sick. Tuesday, he forgets to.

Wednesday noon, the doorphone goes off. He’s tangled up in sheets, and he smells and he’s moist, he feels fucking _moist_ , like sweat from yesterday that just wont seem to soak up into his skin properly, and his stomach wont stop growling and _hurting_. His chest aches. He’s got half a bottle of vodka on his nightstand and he can’t remember when he drank the first part or whether he’s still a little bit drunk from it. He hasn’t looked at the time in what feels like days, hasn’t even seen his phone since he re-read messages between him and Harry and then threw it at the wall Monday.

When the doorphone’s been buzzing non-stop for the past three minutes, Louis finally gives in and gets out of bed. He’s naked because he spilled vodka on his pants sometime yesterday and couldn’t be bothered putting on a new pair, because what’s the fucking point?

He wraps the duvet around him and pads out of the bedroom.

He hasn’t spoken to another human being since Harry left, with the exception of his - probably former now - boss when he called in sick Monday and his voice is rough when he reluctantly takes the phone and says; “ _what_?”

“What the fuck is going on?”

His stomach swoops. He straightens up, just by instinct, as if to make himself more presentable, even though Harry can’t fucking see him through the phone. “Harry.”

“Your boss called me,” Harry says. The line is scratchy, but Louis can still clearly hear just how out of breath Harry is.

“Did you run here?”

“What?” Harry exclaims, “no, what the fuck— are you drunk?”

He scratches at his belly. “No. Not much anyway.”

“Louis, it’s noon on a Wednesday, you— your boss called me,” he says again, and he sounds like he’s torn between concern and frustration. “ _Louis_. She said you hadn’t been to work for two days and they couldn’t get hold of you yesterday at all.”

Or today. “I’ll call them,” Louis mutters, embarrassed with the state of himself. Harry’s probably getting up and going to the gym and continuing his regular routine wherever it is he’s staying at the moment. He hasn’t let his entire world fall apart just because their relationship did. “I’ve just been feeling a bit under the weather and I forgot to call in. You didn’t have to come all the way here, I—  did you need anything?”

It sounds ridiculously clinical, like speaking to a complete stranger and not the man he’s been sharing his bed with for the past eight years of his life.

Hurtful too, going by the sound of Harry’s voice when he replies; “no. No, I- I just wanted to know you weren’t- dead or something.”

Louis gives a screechy laugh. “Well, that’s bloody extreme.”

“Or just hurt yourself or something, I don’t know, you weren’t picking up and you never ditch work without calling in.”

“Don’t flatter yourself, I’m just fine,” Louis says, and wonders whether he sounds just a tiny bit believable.

Harry sighs into the phone. “Okay,” he says, “okay. Well. Charge your phone, you’ve probably got a load of missed calls from work.”

“Don’t mother me.”

“Don’t make me fuckin’ have to.”

Louis presses his forehead to the door. “Okay. Thank you for coming by. Was there anything else?”

Silence. It stretches, grows, expands until Louis’ unsure whether Harry’s even there anymore. Then it comes; “can I come up?”

“What for?” Louis asks, and his voice cracks in the middle. He wants Harry to come up. He wants him so bad. _Needs_ him. 

“Just… wanna see you and make sure you’re all right.”

Yeah. Louis thought it might be something like that. But Harry can’t be that person to him anymore. “Listen, I’m all right. If I let you up right now, I think we’re going to end up doing something that’ll, just— make things harder,” he says, and then, because some foolish part of him wants Harry to tell him he’s wrong and that they need to be close right now, he adds; “don’t you think?”

Another silence. Then, finally; “yeah, you’re right. You’re right, we shouldn’t— right. It was only cause I… I want you to be all right. I want you— I _need_ to know you’re all right, all the time, I- when I get a call like that I can’t think of anything at all until I just know that, like—”

“Harry—” Fuck. _Fuck_ , this really isn’t helping anything. Louis knocks his forehead against the door. “Please.”

“Yeah,” sniffle, “yeah, okay. Okay, sorry. I lo—” the phone cuts off.

For a second, Louis considers ripping the front door open and sprinting down the stairs to catch him. Then he comes to his senses and goes to empty the rest of his vodka instead.

 

*

 

A few hours later, he wakes up on the couch. The telly is on and there’s an empty vodka-bottle on the coffee-table before him. He feels relatively sober. Relatively, compared to when he knocked into the couch a few hours earlier and then fell asleep on it.

The doorphone’s screaming at him again.

He’s drunker than last and that makes him want to pick it up even less. At the same time, the thought of hearing Harry’s voice again proves too tempting and he stumbles for the door. He’ll let him up this time. He can’t stand this. Even if it’s stupid and it’s just for tonight, he needs him up here, he needs to hold him again, just one last time.

“Come up. Please,” he says, soon as he’s got the phone at his ear.

“Well, that was easier than expected,” replies Zayn.

Piss. Fuck. “What are you doing here, why do you keep on showing up here without warning?”

“Just buzz me up, Louis, you sound drunk and I know you’re alone.”

He sighs, and then does so.

Zayn comes bearing three McDonald-bags and a trying-to-mask-my-concern-but-not-bothering-to-try-very-hard-at-all-smile on his face.

Louis leans himself back against the door so as not to risk swaying too much while he waits for Zayn to toe off his trainers.

“Why do you always drink alone, man,” Zayn still mutters, almost conversationally, “I’m insulted, like- you coulda just invited me, I’m always up for a drink.”

“I don’t _always_ drink alone,” Louis says.

Zayn shrugs his jacket off then and looks up. “I know,” he says, and the smile that spreads across his face looks genuine enough, “I know, I was just— whatever. I’ve bought out the entire McDonald down the street. So… Let’s eat.”

They settle on the couch and empty Big Mac’s and Chicken Nugget’s and eleven fucking straws onto the coffee-table.

“They’re free,” Zayn argues with a mouth full of chips, “and besides, nobody stands around pickin’ an exact number of fuckin’ straws out. What kind of gay shit is that?” he pops three more chips in his mouth and shakes his head, “nah, mate, you grab a handful and then you keep the left-overs for next time.”

“But then you’d probably just forget and grab a new handful the next time,” Louis says, “and then the next time and the next time again. And then, eventually, you’d have so many bloody paper-wrapped McDonald-straws you might as well just start selling them back.”

Zayn smacks his lips and snaps his fingers at him, but still not moving his gaze off the telly. “Brilliant idea. Should write that down somewhere.”

Louis frowns at him. He doesn’t notice. Louis lets up and attacks the burger in his lap instead.

They don’t talk for a long while, and Louis appreciates it; the fact that Zayn isn’t immediately on him about work or Harry or the fact that he’s naked and there’s an empty bottle of vodka standing between their McDonald-bags.

Eventually, though, he can’t stand waiting for Zayn to suddenly confront him, so he rips the band-aid off himself; “Harry asked you to pop by here, didn’t he?”

Zayn doesn’t take his eyes off the telly, but the little twitch under his eyes tells Louis all that he needs to know. “Does it matter?” is what he says.

Louis rolls his eyes. “No… But I know he did, so you might as well tell me.”

“All right.”

“All right, what? He did or he didn’t?”

Zayn sighs. “Yeah he did, Lou. He just wanted me to make sure you weren’t, like… doing something stupid.”

Louis’ glances over at the vodka-bottle. “I wasn’t,” he mutters.

“Cool,” Zayn replies, eyes the same place as Louis’, “cool.”

“Fuck you.”

“Fuck you too,” Zayn says, before he finally looks at Louis, “mate, he was just worried and he knew it wasn’t good for him to come up here. But, you know, the second he called me and told me about shit, I was worried too. So you don’t have to, like— I’m not here just cause of H or anything,” he squeezes Louis’ knee, “I’m here cause I care about ya.”

“Thanks,” Louis says quietly, “but is he sitting round now, waiting for you to report back to him or summat?”

Zayn shakes his head. “I threw him a text when you were in the loo.”

“Hm.” Louis bites at his nails for a second, and Zayn’s gaze rolls back to the telly. “Did he tell you, like—”

“Mostly, yeah,” Zayn says, like it’s nothing, “most of everything, yeah.”

“Are you going to force me to talk about it?”

Zayn looks at him again. “I’m going to force you to let me stay the night and then I’m going to force you to either go to work or at least call them up tomorrow or whatever,” he says, “but I won’t force you to talk if that’s not what you wanna do. Right now, I just wanna make sure you don’t— lose your job and your fuckin’ liver in less than a week. All right?”

Louis nods. He supposes he could get on board with that. “All right.”

“All right.” Zayn turns back to the telly. “Cool.”

“Cool.”

When Louis goes to sleep that night, he still feels like utter shit. Zayn took away his alcohol supply and it takes him hours to fall asleep, just tossing and turning in the bed, squirming and writhing from how much he has to fight himself not to reach for his phone and call Harry up. In the end, though, he falls asleep, and when he wakes in the morning, he and Zayn eat and smoke on the balcony together and then Zayn drives him to work and he makes it through the day.

And, even if he does still feels so fucking miserable he thinks he might literally die from it, that in itself is a little bit of a victory.


	19. Chapter 19

He makes it to Friday by the skin of his teeth. After Zayn went home Thursday evening, he’s been calling and texting every third hour, but aside from that Louis’ been alone. All alone. Sitting on the couch, constantly staring at his phone instead of the telly that he’s got on just to feel less, well— alone. He’s been waiting for Harry to contact him, if nothing else then just to say hello. But he hasn’t. He hasn’t so much as sent a text since Wednesday.

And Louis knows that it won’t help him at all, but the only way he gets through the day is telling himself, every time he checks his phone and there aren’t any new messages from anyone he actually cares about getting a message from right now - Harry, only Harry - that this is temporary. This is only temporary, like when Louis stayed with Eleanor for a night. Harry might not think so yet, but he will, eventually, when he comes to his senses.

They always come back to each other. They belong together. Louis can’t imagine a life for himself where they don’t.

This is temporary.

Meanwhile, Eleanor decides that sitting at home, staring at his phone, waiting for ’temporary’ to be done with, isn’t any good either. Saturday, she invites Louis to tag along with her to some semi-famous fashion-bloggers birthday party/promotional event, threatening to show up at his doorstep unannounced any time, any day, if he doesn’t.

He takes one look at the state of himself, and the room around him, and then tells her _all right_.

Hours later, room still looks like shit, but Louis himself looks, well— he’s wearing trousers and his hair-do could be excused as effortless bedhead-sexy if he plays his cards right. And if the place the party’s being held at hasn’t got very bright lighting.

Eleanor’s already parked out front when he comes outside. He hopes she can’t tell that he hasn’t left the flat since Friday noon, after getting sent home early for _lookin’ like something the cat puked up_.

“You look pale,” she says as the first thing when he slides into the passenger’s seat.

“Cheers. You look like shit too,” he says, hardly bothering to make it sound sarcastic.

Which it is, obviously. She looks gorgeous. She always looks gorgeous. But he’s in a mood and if she takes it the wrong way it might just satisfy the bitter take-everything-out-on-every-innocent-person-in-sight-thing he’s got going on at the moment.

She just huffs and pulls off the curb and mutters, “knickers. Untwist them, please.”

“No thanks, I think I’m all right,” Louis says, pressing his face to the cool window, “I quite like them twisted. Irritates my arsehole. I revel in the pain. Deep down, I think I deserve it. Probably stems from my childhood. The other kids used to make me eat sand and—”

She slaps him on the thigh with a chuckle. “Shut the fuck up, would you?”

“Why?”

“Cause you’re just— you’re trying to waste the entire drive talking shit so you don’t risk me asking about how you’re feeling,” she says, “ _really_ feeling.”

He sighs. It feels like his entire chest deflates in on itself. “You do always know how to pump a guy up for a party, gotta give you that, El.”

“Yeah, right, fuck me for giving a shit. How are you feeling about everything? Come on.” She nudges his leg. “Shit? Are you feeling shit? Cause if you are, we’ll get you drunk to forget. Or are you feeling relieved? Cause if you are we’ll get you drunk to celebrate.” He can feel her glancing at the side of his face again. “Lou- _is_.”

“Elean- _err_.”

“We’re there in a minute, just answer me already. - Or has he already come back and you’re embarrassed to tell me or something, is that it? You don’t need to worry about me judging, I’m with freakin’ Idris still, for God’s sake, if he’s back home already, you can just—”

“He’s not,” Louis snaps, “he’s not, okay?” He licks over his lips, then shakes his head. “He’s not home. And I don’t know when he will be. _If_ he will be. And it— it’s fucking… insufferable. It’s really, really, _really_ fucking shit. And I don’t want to talk about it tonight.”

She glances at him again. He doesn’t look up to read her expression.

“Okay,” she finally says, and when she’s moved her eyes back on the road he finally manages to lift his and look at her. There’s nothing _to_ read. Nothing but a pair of lips, smacking together, making a popping noise. “Okay,” she says again, resolutely, “that’s shit. Let’s get fucking mortal.”

 

*

 

The host turns out to have rented an entire nightclub just for the purpose of her birthday-party. At least that’s very much what the space looks like when Louis walks in and is immediately hit directly in the eyesight by a blindingly harsh neon-pink strobe-light. The place is absolutely crammed with people in ‘fashionable’ outfits, swaying in lieu of dancing and sipping glitter-glassed welcome-drinks. Louis has to get up on his tiptoes just to be able to see the stage that the entire crowd is facing. There’s a woman in a half-kimono, half-onesie, badly karaokeing Five Direction.

“You neglected to inform me that we were going gay clubbing in the nineteen-nineties,” Louis says to Eleanor.

She laughs and slaps him on the arm. He’s pretty sure she couldn’t hear half of what he said over the poppy Five Direction-tune absolutely destroying everyone’s eardrums.

“Come on!” he thinks he hears her yell, and then he’s being grabbed by the wrist and dragged through the crowd.

After many a shoulder-shove and accidental welcome drink-spill, they finally find themselves at the bar. Through some miracle, and the fact that Eleanor’s showing a nice bit of cleavage tonight, two men offer up their stools almost immediately. They slide into their seats and the bartender notices and hands them each a welcome drink.

“One free drink per person,” he says with a grin, eyes flickering over Eleanor’s glitter-contoured decolletage, “but if you ask me nicely for another, I’m not sure I’d be able to say no to you.” 

“Oh, is that right?” she asks, voice going high and girly, arms going up on the bardesk.

“It is. You know, you’ve got the prettiest smile I’ve seen all evening,” the guy says, although his gaze is still stuck quite a few inches below her mouth, “I’m Tim.”

She shakes his hand. “Emily.”

“That’s a pretty name, Emily.”

“Thank you, Tim.”

Someone yells for the guy at the other end of the bar and he rips his eyes off of Eleanor and goes off to do his job.

Louis drains down half of his sugary-sweet drink in one go. “Fit guy, huh, Emily?”

Eleanor grins over her glass. “Very fit.” She has a sip, then shrugs a shoulder. “Always smart to be on good terms with the bartender.”

“Why the fake name, though?”

“Didn’t want to risk tarnishing my good name,” she says, and then she gulps down the entire rest of her drink and sends a smile across the bar for Tim the Bartender, “you know, since we’re going to get ourselves absolutely braindead tonight.”

“You know, you’ve said that twice in less than an hour and I still don’t feel the slightest bit tipsy.”

“Tim! Round of shots over here, please!”

 

-

 

Several more rounds of shots later, Louis’ sitting alone in the bar. They were out dancing, then smoking, then dancing again, and then Tim the Bartender’s shift ended and Eleanor got dragged into some VIP-room while Louis nursed another drink in the corner of the bar. She said she’d be back in five minutes max, that she only needed to say hello to a few important people, and maybe she hasn’t even been gone for half of that yet, but it still feels like she has. He’s drunk enough that everything’s gone a bit fuzzy, the dancefloor just a blur of mostly indistinguishable bodies and he isn’t even sure whether he’s sitting down or standing up, can’t keep track of his own bum.

He glances down. Blinks to make the floor stop spinning. He’s sitting down. He’s on a barstool. All right, then. Good to know.

He keeps seated. Watches the dancer’s for a while.

There’s a guy dancing with a girl in a black dress. He’s wearing a pink polka-dot-shirt identical to the one Harry wore for Stan and Emma’s moving-in thing last year. He’s tall, somewhat pale and has dark hair and every single fucking time Louis lays eyes on him his heart skips a beat, his stomach drops, he thinks _fucking hell, that’s Harry_. When he then realises, over and over again, because he’s too fucking fueled with tequila for short term-memory, that the guy isn’t Harry, he feels relieved. For a second. And then, once it sinks in that Harry isn’t here and Louis isn’t going to see him tonight, or tomorrow, or the day after that, it’s just— crushing. So, so fucking miserable.

He wants to go home. There’s a lump in his throat and it’s been there all night, but if something sets him off he’s too drunk now to swallow it down and not make a fool of himself. He left his phone in his jacket which he left with the coat-girl when they came here, because Eleanor told him to, because _otherwise you’re just going to end up drunk calling him up or something stupid, Lou_. He resents her for that now. He really fucking needs his phone. So he can call Harry up.

He wants to go home.

And, right then, as if the DJ somehow read his mind, the music cuts off. Louis turns in his seat to face the stage.

The karaoke stopped a while ago, thank fuck, and there’s been a DJ up there for a while. But now, Louis realises, his entire mixing deck and all of his chords have been pushed aside. Now, the only thing left on stage is the kimono-onesie woman again, who Eleanor introduced him to earlier and it turned out she was the sister of the birthday girl. He’s forgotten her name.

“What’s up, guuuuys!” she screams into a microphone, and then giggles awkwardly when the crowd screams back, “so. So, guys, as you all know Suze is a bit of a prude - oh, don’t give me that look - guys, she’s scowling at me from the front here,” the drunk crowd laughs, “anyway, we thought now that you’re twenty-two you’re a proper grown woman, yeah? So, me and the girls have arranged something that’s _definitely_ proper grown woman stuff,” she blows a kiss, “enjoy, babe. Love you. I’m sorry.”

She stumbles off the stage.

For a second, the entire club is still with anticipation. Louis even finds himself squeezing his glass a bit.

Then, suddenly, all the lights cut off. A few people scream, giggle, and then, just as panic begins to arise, the stroble-lights shoot back on, flashing bright red onto the stage and Grind With Me blasts through every speaker.

A group of four men appear on stage, dressed in tight-fitting military costumes and the entire crowd just loses it.

The strip-show is brilliant, up to proper Magic Mike-standard, and Louis even finds himself getting lost in it for a moment, screaming and howling along with the rest. Not too far into it, the poor birthday-girl gets hauled up on stage and grinded senseless. Eleanor arrives back from the VIP-room, Tim the Bartender in tow, and slings an arm around Louis and gets them another round of drinks while they watch.

Once the show comes to an end Louis feels a little buzzed off an extra vodka Red Bull, and a little less alone, with Eleanor close by. He sticks around the bar, watching Eleanor come up with the most elaborate lies about ‘Emily’s adventurous life and Tim swallow it all up.

At some point, she nudges Louis in the side and nods at something behind him.

It’s three of the four strippers, getting in behind the bar. They look even better close-up, big and bulky, and making every semi-attractive bartender go from an eight to a six in an instant.

“Why’re they bartending now too?” Eleanor asks Tim.

“And even more outrageously, why’ve they put their clothes back on? Surely, that can’t be part of the job-description,” Louis adds.

“Think they’ll do anything, as long as you pay for their time. And I’m sure they don’t mind the attention,” Tim says, glancing over at where two of the military-men are being chatted up by, like, six girls at once.

Louis checks the tallest one’s bum out, just because, and then turns back to his drink. “Hm,” he says, “I want to go home soon.”

“Noooo, I was just about to tell the story of the time Mick Jagger asked if he could piss on me,” Eleanor exclaims, Tim’s eyes widening in a mix of horror and excitement.

“Right, well, then I’m going to get a taxi, Eleanor.”

Tim turns. “Who’s Eleanor?”

Louis’ lips click apart. Woops. Just as he’s about to come up with some absurd explanation that’ll probably go down well because Tim’s too enamored with Eleanor to be the least bit sceptic, someone taps him on the shoulder.

He turns. Then stiffens. Fuck.

“Hi,” the guy says. He’s leaning over from behind the bar, big arms pressing down right in front of Louis, “don’t I know you from somewhere?”

Louis swallows. Clears his throat. Coughs. Clears his throat again. “I don’t think so.”

“Oh… I could’ve sworn,” the stripper says, sly grin smeared across his stupid face, “could’ve sworn I’ve seen you somewhere. Can’t remember where, though… Hm… Maybe if you turned around it might refreshen my memory? Got on all fours, maybe, I vaguely remember you being on all fours last I saw you.”

Louis groans. “Shut up.”

The stripper laughs. “How’s the boyfriend?”

“Shut _up_.”

“Did you really not recognize me up on stage?” he asks, “you don’t even remember my name, do you?” Louis gives him a look that says _no, and why the fuck should I?_ and the stripper laughs. “Eli,” he says, reaching a hand over the bar for Louis. He grins and rubs his knuckle when Louis doesn’t shake it. “Lewis, wasn’t it?”

“Sure,” Louis mutters, looking to his side, hoping for help, but there is none to find. Eleanor’s on her way out to dance with Tim, sending a wink and a thumbs-up in Louis’ direction before she turns and disappears in the waves of bodies. Fuck.

“Looking for someone?”

Louis turns back to the stripper. “Please, I’m sorry if I seem rude or something, but—”

“Relax, mate,” the stripper says, “I’m used to getting pumped and dumped, it’s all right.”

Louis rubs at his temples. “Look, it was nice running into you, or whatever, but, ehm—”

“Let me get you a drink,” the stripper cuts through. “You look like you need one.”

Louis shakes his head. “No thanks, mate, I’m headed home.”

“Ahh,” he cocks his head back, “home to the boyfriend, then?”

“No,” Louis grits out, his hand clenching up around the drink he’s still holding. He gulps down the last of it. “No, we’re not together anymore. And no, I will not answer you if you ask me why. - And no, I don’t want a drink.”

Stripper lifts his hands in defense, chuckling. “All right, all right. I’m sorry.”

“Thanks.”

“For your ex-boyfriend, that is. You’re a bloody brilliant shag.”

Louis drops his forehead to the bar-disk. “Shut the fuck up, will you?” he groans, “and get me that fucking drink already.”

 

*

 

The first thing he sees when he opens his eyes in the morning, is something that makes him hiss and screw his eyes shut and roll over and bury his face in the pillow. It’s sunlight.

He can’t remember fuck-all from last night and his hangover’s almost worse than it was every other morning this past week. Louis often gets drunk, but he rarely gets black-outs. When he does, it’s always seemed to be selective; sort of like repressing childhood trauma’s, only instead it’s pissing on someone’s dog by accident or mooning Harry’s mum, once, partially by accident. Therefore, he’s always terrified when he does wake up with no memory of last night. He knows he’s done something bad.

His stomach hurts when he lies on it so he rolls over again, meaning to land on Harry’s side of the bed, but instead landing on— someone else’s stomach.

He gasps, loudly, and pushes off the person. Looks down at him. Gasps again.

Fuck. Fuck, no no no.

In a pair of little red briefs and nothing else, lying on _Harry’s_ side of _Harry’s_ bed, lies the guy that fucked _Harry’s_ boyfriend.

“Fuck,” Louis exclaims, “fuck, no no no, shit, this is not happening, fuck—” he looks down himself. He’s wearing pants, but nothing else. “Fuck, wake up.” He begins to ruffle and poke at the guy, “wake up, mate, up, up, up!”

The guy grunts, whacks Louis’ hand away and rolls onto his stomach, really nuzzling his face into Harry’s pillow.

Louis grabs him by the back of the hair and yanks his head back. “Wake the _fuck_ up!”

Finally, the guy groans, then shifts around and opens his eyes. “Hey,” he murmurs, stretching his spray-tanned muscle-arms up over his head, “thought you said you weren’t much of a morning person.”

“When the fuck did I say that?”

“Last night.” The stripper looks him up and down, then gives a lazy grin, “you don’t remember shit, do you?”

Louis makes eyes at him, because he’s a fucking idiot and Louis’ heart is at about a thousand beats per minute. “Course not, I must’ve been fucking mortal.”

“What, to have taken me home?” the smug prick asks.

“Yes,” Louis hisses, “yes, fuck, fuck- you’ve got to get out of this bed. You’ve really, you— you can’t be here. You can’t be lying here.”

The guy’s eyes narrow a little. “Okay,” he says, but doesn’t move an inch, “I’ll fuck right off, right now, if you can tell me my name. What’s my name, Louis?”

Fuck. Louis’ gaze flicks around, as if the bedroom-walls are going to give him the answer. “I don’t fucking know,” he lands on, “does it fucking matter?”

“Mattered to my mum and dad when they gave it to me,” the guy says, and Louis is about to scream at him, but then he finally sits up and pushes off the bed.

Louis slaps at the sheets soon as he’s off them, trying get the crinkles from his body off of them, hoping to get a bit of his smell off with it. He hasn’t changed these sheets since Harry left and it’s been deliberate. It’s been his guilty pleasure - along with booze, fags and porn - lying here and, if nothing else, being able to bury his face in something that smells like Harry.

Now it’s infested with sweaty, slaggy, spray-tanned stripper-stink.

“Where’s your shower?” the stripper asks. He’s hanging in the corner of the room now, looking at the painting Harry bought off Gemma back when she thought it was a good idea for her to be an artist and the world didn’t seem to agree with her. He’s tracing it with his finger, the fucking prick.

“My shower is where my shower is,” Louis says sharply, “now, get your bloody clothes on and leave.”

“Haven’t got my bloody clothes, have I?”

“What do you mean, you haven’t got your bloody clothes? You have- what do you have, like, wasn’t it some sort of camouflage—”

“Wow.” The stripper’s turned around now and he’s shaking his head at Louis, “you really can’t remember shit.”

“No. I can’t. But I don’t need you to spell it out to me, I can sort of guess my way there. Now get the fuck out, naked or not.”

The stripper laughs. Then his expression softens, along with his voice. “Listen, we didn’t do anything. Well, we had a little snog at the club, but then, I think your friend had gone home with that guy of hers and you were suddenly stumbling drunk so I drove you home and helped you up here. Then you puked all over me and yourself. Then we had to get out of the puke-clothes - and yes, you took your own clothes off, I’m not a fuckin’ pervert - and then you said you wanted to put it all in the hamper, but you ended up out on the balcony and you threw it all over the edge of it for no reason at all.”

Louis’ frowning so hard he can feel a permanent wrinkle forming. “ _What_?”

“What I just said. Need me to repeat?”

“No. No no.” He closes his eyes for a moment, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Fuck.”

“Yeah,” the stripper chuckles, “anyway, afterwards, I was going to leave, but then you started crying. And saying you didn’t want to be alone and all sorts of shit I couldn’t make sense of and… I swear I wasn’t trying anything, I didn’t rub off on your bum or some creepy shit, I— I just got into bed with you and sort of… cause you were in hysterics, you were crying and you said you wanted to be held so I just… did. Sorry if that was- I know that’s kind of pervy when I wasn’t drunk and you were, but— fuck it, you just seemed like you needed a cuddle.”

Louis stares at him for a few long seconds, nodding, or just bopping his head while blanking out, he isn’t sure. In the end, he doesn’t know what to do or say, so he just sighs and ends up on; “well, the showers right in there and the towels are under the sink. Sorry I puked on you.”

The stripper nods. “It’s all right, I’ve seen a lot of stuff in my profession,” he says with a grin, “and, by the way, my name,” he adds, “it’s Eli.”

Right. “Okay. Well, go have a shower, then, Elliot, you stink of puke.”

Eli laughs and then obliges.

Louis plops back on the bed with a long sigh. He didn’t fuck the stripper again. He didn’t even blow him. Okay. Okay.

It’s a second, maybe two, of relief rushing through his hangovered limbs, before he hears a sound that makes his heart leap into his throat; the front door unlocking. Opening. Boots stepping into the hall.

He sets off the bed and sprints through the flat.

When he reaches the hall, he’s so out of breath, more from panic than anything else, that he doesn’t manage to say a word.

Harry stands right by the front door, still in boots and coat, hair pulled up in a tight bun. His skin’s always pale, but today it’s nearly see-through, looks like Louis might bruise it just by touching. He’s been biting his lips to shreds, he’s been ripping at the shreds by his teeth, he’s been hurting himself, worrying.

Louis hurts inside, just looking at him.

“Hi.” Even his voice sounds broken, like he’s been clearing his throat so much it’s gone permanently sore from it, “sorry to pop by unannounced.”

Louis drops his head. “Bloody hell, Harry, it’s your fucking flat too.”

“I know, but—” he takes a step closer and Louis’ stomach jumps, “you know what I mean.”

Louis backs himself up against the wall, “what do you mean?”

“I mean, I’m sorry it’s unannounced, but I had to come and see you.”

With that, Harry steps close enough that Louis has to cock his head back against the wall to meet his eye. He smells like the bedsheets Louis’ been sniffing all week, only better, right here, vibrating heat so close to him, and Louis gets this intense urge to press his face into his wide warm chest and breathe him in.

It takes all he has in him to stifle that urge. “What are you doing here, Harry?”

“Just had to see your face,” Harry says, and his voice cracks halfway through, goes on as a whisper, “I just can’t— stand it, Lou.”

He drops his head, bites at his poor lip and then looks up, sweet and young and sorry.

“ _You_ left _me_ ,” Louis manages to say, flattening a palm out on Harry’s chest when he starts to tip in, “ _you_ left _me_ , remember?”

The shower isn’t running in the other room anymore. Eli’s out of it, then. It’ll only be a matter of minutes, maybe less, before he—

“I can’t stand not knowing when I’ll see you again,” Harry says, and then drops a kiss to the side of Louis’ mouth, arms looping round his waist, “I can’t, I— can’t stand not knowing if you’re all right, all the time, I— Lou, I—”

There’s a thump in the bedroom.

Harry goes rigid. He pulls back, slowly, frowning. “Did you hear that?”

“Yeah,” Louis breathes, his heart pounding so hard he can’t think, “yeah, it’s—”

“‘ve you got someone here?”

“Yeah, I—”

“S’it Zayn? S’he still here?”

Louis curls his shaking fingers around the front of Harry’s shirt, as if to make sure he can’t go anywhere. “No.”

“Then who?”

Louis opens his mouth to reply, but no sound comes out. No sound except for footsteps in the bedroom, then the livingroom and then—

“I borrowed some of your clothes, thought it was only fair since you messed mine up.”

Eli comes sauntering into the hall in a pair of Louis’ trackies and— one of Harry’s old t-shirts.

Harry stumbles backwards.

“Oh,” Eli says, completely oblivious, and smiles politely, “hiya, mate.”

Harry just stares at him, panting through parted lips, nostrils flaring.

Louis clears his dry throat. “Ehm,” he croaks, “Harry, this isn’t what it—”

Before he has a chance to finish, Harry charges across the room and shoves the stripper, hard. He stumbles backwards into the livingroom and Harry shoves him again, and again, until he gets over the initial shock of it and shoves back.

“What the fuck, mate?”

Harry pants at him almost violently, and his right hand is clenched up in a fist, but he’s cupping it with the left like he’s trying to hold himself back. In the end, he makes a throaty noise and then spits.

“What the fuck?!” Eli screams, clutching his face, “did you just fuckin’ spit on me?! He fucking spat on me!”

He sounds like he’s ready to fight now, but Louis has pulled himself out of his bystander-shock state now and managed to grab Harry by the waist to pull him backwards.

He stumbles with a few feet, until he realises who’s got his hands on him and then shoves Louis off. “Don’t touch me,” he says, marching for the door, and when Louis runs after and tries to explain and tries to grab him by the arm, he shrugs him off so roughly that he trips himself and falls onto his bum.

Before he has a chance to get back on his feet, Harry’s disappeared behind the lift.

Louis takes one quick look back at the stripper, then out into the stairway and then sprints out there in his boxers. He takes two, or three, steps at a time, he isn’t even sure, just knows he has to beat the lift. He makes it down there before Harry, but when Harry finally comes out and sees him, he shoves past Louis so fast and unexpectedly that Louis falls behind again. He watches Harry disappear outside, a vicious gust of wind hitting his bare skin.

He bites his lip for a second, then grabs the front door and runs out onto the pavement, half-naked.

“Harry!” he screams, running after him, and he hasn’t got the car and seems to have walked here, but he still isn’t turning around, “Harry, for fuck’s sake, give me a second!”

Finally, Harry throws a quick glance over his shoulder, and what he sees makes him stop and spin all the way around and march back.

“Put some fucking clothes on, what the fuck are you doing?” he exclaims, gaze flicking round to check for curious neighbors.

“Harry, I didn’t fuck him. I didn’t fuck him again,” Louis pants, “I didn’t, I was drunk, I was missing you, and he took me home, that’s all, he just took me home cause I was drunk.”

Harry doesn’t look like he hears him, or cares, but instead begins to shrug off his coat.

“Harry, I swear, we didn’t do anything, I was much too fucking drunk.”

Harry wraps his coat around Louis, then turns on his heel and marches off again.

“I- _Harry_!” Louis screams, grabbing onto the coat and running after again. He tries to grab Harry by the arm, three times, but gets shrugged right off every time.

The fourth time he sprints to overtake him and then stops in front of him, trying to get in his way. Harry’s eyes are on the ground, expression clenched up, and he’s got goosebumps on his arms now, because he gave his coat up.

“Please, I need you to know I didn’t do that,” Louis goes on, desperate and shaking, walking backwards and miraculously managing not to trip himself again, “please, I wouldn’t, I—”

Finally, Harry stops. He looks up. “Did you let him sleep in our bed?”

“I—”

“Yeah, you did,” Harry says for him, “and did you snog him, at some point, did you kiss him? You must’ve spent some time on him for him to want to bring your pissed arse all the way home last night. I should know, it’s a fucking nightmare every time.”

Louis bites his lip. He doesn’t say anything. Can’t think of a single thing that wouldn’t make it worse.

“Yeah,” Harry says, eventually, like he knew already, but he’s disappointed still, “yeah, you did kiss him. You did. Course you did,” he says, “it’s been a fucking _week_ , Louis, and you’re bringing the guy you cheated on me with into our bed - _our_ bed, _our_ home, you—” he shakes his head, gaze rolling out onto the road, “fucking unbelievable. A fucking _week_.”

Louis steps closer and Harry steps backwards. “I was so pissed last night,” Louis says, fingertips reaching out for Harry’s shirt and getting whacked right off every time, “I was so pissed, I was just missing you, I—”

“And you know what? You- you want to know something?” Harry cuts through, “I just spent three days up in Sheffield, seeing my kid. I just spent three days up there, with Marie crawling all over me.”

Louis steps backwards. “What?”

“Yeah,” Harry says, “I don’t fuckin’ know, I guess she heard I was single again and she thought she’d go for it. We even drank two bottles of wine Friday night, just the two of us.”

Louis feels sick. He tries to swallow, but his mouth, his throat, everything’s suddenly gone too dry. “Did you—”

“No,” Harry says firmly, “no, I got drunk with a former swimwear model who’s the mother of my child, who _literally_ offered to suck my dick at one point and you know what I did? You know what I did? I left the _second_ she touched her fuckin’ hand to my thigh. I got up and I left and I drove right back to London and then I spent all of Saturday just crying because I was missing you, I was just missing you. And then I came up here in the morning and you’ve just— you’ve just fucking—” he throws a hand out, sucks his bottom lip in and looks away.

Louis watches him, how his eyes have gone watery, his nose and lips red with it, and feels like he’s fighting every inch of his body not to cry too. “I—”

“But it’s fine,” Harry says on half a voice, head snapping up, “it’s fine, it’s— now I know. Now I guess I know. That’s how it is, then. That’s fucking— fine.”

Louis frowns at him, not quite understanding, and Harry begins to walk again, passing him and picking up pace.

“What’s fine?” Louis yells.

Harry turns, but keeps walking backwards. “Whatever the fuck you want to do,” he yells, throwing his arms out, “with him, or anyone else, you can suck every dick in London, it’s fine, I don’t care.”

“No, but—” Louis begins to move again, half-running to catch up to him, “where are you going? You’re not going up to her now, are you? Please don’t— don’t do something stupid just because you’re upset, please—”

“I’ll do whatever I want. Just like you do,” Harry says.

“No,” Louis says, and he’s desperate, pleading, fucking pathetic, but he can’t bring himself to care, “no, but, please, just— are you going up to her? Just please tell me you’re not going up to her?”

Harry looks him in the eye, and if he weren’t red and puffy underneath, if his lips weren’t wobbling, Louis would say he looked utterly emotionless in that moment. “Listen,” he says, “you’ve just lost any right to know about my sex life. I’ll do what I want now. So can you. Goodbye.”

And, then Harry leaves. And Louis just stands there, wrapped up in the last thing he has left that smells like him, and watches him go.


	20. Chapter 20

When he steps back into the flat, his legs feel numb from the cold, and his chest tight from watching Harry go. He lets the coat slip to the floor, locks the door behind him and pads into the kitchen because he needs something to drink. There’s only milk in the fridge, tea and coffee in the cabinets, water in the faucet. He could’ve sworn he had a bottle of wine standing on the counter, but apparently he drank that too, last night.

His fingertips are throbbing. He needs something. To drink, to smoke, to drown out the silence.

They’ve got a CD-player standing in the corner of the kitchen-counter. Louis never uses it, but he likes it when Harry does, although he’d never admit it. He turns it on without thinking, without even taking a look at the CD before it starts to spin.

He clutches the edge of the counter, presses his forehead to one of the cabinets and hopes for it to be rocky, screaming-loud and lyric-less.

It’s everything but.

A guitar strums mellowly and a man begins to sing. Louis can’t remember the name of the song, but he’s heard it a million times before. He’s heard it, right here, whenever Harry turned this particular CD on. He’s watched Harry cooking up eggs and bakey in the mornings, bare-arsed and swaying his hips to the melody. He’s seen Harry sitting in the window, curled up with his laptop, feet tapping along as his fingers do the same.

He’s let Harry pull him in by the wrist in the middle of the night, drunk and high and so fucking happy they didn’t need to be any of the two first things, and swayed him around. Wrapped his arms around Louis’ waist and rested his face in the crook of his neck and hummed along every time the guy sings, over and over, _I wanna make it with you._

He remembers standing in a moment like that, feeling the low vibration of Harry’s voice against his skin send tickles down his spine, and thinking _and you will._

But, that was then.

He’s bent fully over, face in his arms, entire weight slumped onto the counter, when someone walks up behind him.

“Nice,” the prick says, right before his palm collides with Louis’ bum.

“Piss off,” Louis hisses. He straightens up and turns off the music, wipes his nose and eyes with the back of his wrist and pins his gaze to Eli’s blotchy orange feet. “I’m really, I— I need you to go. I’m sorry if that comes off rude but, I, ehm— I need you to leave. Without that t-shirt you’re wearing. You can take my trackies, I don’t care, just please leave the t-shirt and go.”

Silence. It stretches on for a while, and then Eli utters four words too much; “are you all right?”

Louis drops his face into his hands. There’s no dignity left to save, he’s crying in front of a total stranger, he can’t even manage a _no_ , or a lie, the only thing he manages to do is cover his face in his hands, as if that makes any bloody difference.

“No, hey,” Eli says, and before Louis knows it, he’s got arms wrapping around him, hands stroking up and down his back, “it’s all right, it’s all right. Whatever it is, I’m sure it’ll be all right. Your fella’s a bit of a nutter, but I’m sure it’ll be all right.”

But, that’s the thing. Harry isn’t his fella anymore. “I- I need you to leave,” Louis says again, shrugging out of Eli’s arms, “I just- please just go. I don’t know what is that you need from me, but- just _please_.”  

Eli still hesitates. Stands there and watches Louis while he tries to reassemble himself, sniffling pathetically. “I don’t like to leave people alone when they’re like this. Especially not when they’ve got a mental ex-bloke running round outside, barging in out of the blue and attacking people.”

“I don’t need a total stranger to protect me,” Louis says, “and he’s not remotely dangerous.”

“He spat on me,” Eli notes.

“Well, you probably deserved it. You did fuck his boyfriend.”

Eli chuckles dryly. “Okay,” he finally says, before he reaches round the back of his neck and yanks Harry’s old t-shirt off, “suppose I won’t die from walking the streets topless. I am a stripper, after all.”

Louis sighs. “Hang on,” he says, and then goes and fetches one of his own t-shirts and gives it to Eli, “here.”

“Cheers,” Eli says, before he begins to pull the much too tight t-shirt down his body. Once it’s fully on, he looks a bit like The Hulk, mid-transition. “And this is brilliant, by the way, cause now I have an excuse to see you again.”

Louis rolls his eyes. He wants to be alone. “You can just- keep it or, burn it or what fucking ever. Just please leave and don’t come back here.”

“Right,” Eli says, ducking his head, “all right. I’ll give it up, then. Bye.”

“Bye.”

“And take care of yourself, Lou—”

Louis slams the door and locks it again.  

 

*

 

Over the course of the next week, he calls Harry something like thirty times without response. He isn’t sure what it is that he wants out of it, aside from fully explaining himself, even though he thinks he already did that and it made no difference, but leaving things seems something like impossible. Mostly, his fucked-up brain tells him that if he disturbs Harry enough in a day, he won’t have any spare time to fuck the living shit out of Marie.

He isn’t even sure where Harry stays these days.

One particularly miserable night, when he’s had a bit too much to drink and a little too little social interaction in a little too long, he considers calling up Nick. Or Tony, or their next-door neighbor or anyone who might know them, just to ask; _is he with you?_ And more importantly, _is he not with her?_

To his luck - although he doesn’t exactly see it that way until he wakes up sober the following morning - he hasn’t got any of their numbers.

He goes to bed alone that night, and the night after that, and the night after that, and he starts to grow accustomed to the solitude. Starts to prefer it. Starts to think; well, at least if he doesn’t see anyone, he won’t risk anyone asking him about Harry. And if no one asks about Harry, he won’t have to talk about Harry and him splitting, and if he doesn’t talk about it, it won’t feel real. It might still be temporary.

Of course, it’s only a matter of time before people decide it isn’t his choice to make anymore.

A Sunday evening, when he’s sitting in bed, curled up in his duvet with Netflix streaming non-stop, and a bottle of cheap rosé between his legs, two third’s empty, the door-phone goes off.

“Shit,” he hisses, as his heart starts to hammer, fast enough to feel dizzy, just at that. He hasn’t had visitors in two weeks.

Before he has a chance to decide whether to pretend he isn’t home and wait the buzzing out, something else begins to buzz closer by. His phone.

Fuck.

In his tipsy and confused state of mind, he picks up the phone without checking to see the caller-ID, thinking it’s the same person who’s buzzing his door-phone down. Thinking he’ll just say; “hi, what’s up, mate? I’m not home right now” and that’ll be it.

“Right. Well, no worries then,” replies Zayn on the other end.

“What do you mean?”

“Oh, well, I was just calling to warn you cause I just found a load of group-texts from Stan and Niall saying they were headed to your place cause you and H had dropped off the face of the earth. But if you aren’t home, then nevermind.”

Fuck. The door-phone, which had gone quiet for a moment, goes off again. _Fuck_. “Fuck.”

“Yeah, that’s what I thought,” Zayn chuckles dryly, “good luck with them. I’ll be over to save you as fast I can manage.”

Louis drops the phone without saying goodbye, as the door-phone still screams at him from the other end of the flat. He puts the rosé down on the nightstand, then decides that’s not a nice place to leave a near-empty bottle of wine out on display, and lifts it up to make it fully empty in one big gulp. He hides it in one of the nightstand-drawers, then runs and sprays himself with deodorant, rinses with mouthwash, pops a few Polo’s, runs to the door and then, finally, realises he’s naked.

He runs back to the bedroom, yanks on a pair of trackies, finds a random t-shirt on his way back and pulls it on in a haste.

“Yes?” he finally pants, picking up the door-phone.

“Fuckin’ hell,” is the only response.

Louis buzzes them up.

It’s just Niall and Stan and nobody else, thank fuck, but that’s too much as it is. They tumble into the hall, big muddy trainers, frosty coats and rain-wet hair, moaning about the smell in the stairway and the size of the lift. By the time they’ve thrown their coats and toed off their trainers and absolutely wrecked the floor - not that Louis kept it particularly clean anyway - they haven’t looked at Louis properly once.

Then they do. “Wow,” Stan says, “you look—”

“Like shit,” Niall finishes.

Louis swipes his fringe aside. “Cheers, guys,” he chuckles dryly.

“No, really,” Stan keeps on, “fuckin’ hell, you look— you look pissed. You _smell_ pissed. Are you pissed?”

Louis keeps his gaze on the floor. “Not particularly.”

“Where’s Harry?”

And oh, he just wants to shrink in on himself and disappear. He doesn't want to say it, doesn’t know _how_ to without breaking down completely. He isn’t above lying about it, he hasn’t got the morals, but he just doesn’t think he can manage to string anything remotely coherent together. He’s a bit too tipsy, a bit too fucking tired, and he’s forgotten how to speak to people when it isn’t work-related.

He ends up just muttering; “out with friends.”

The room goes a bit quiet after that. Louis wills himself not to look up.

“Out with friends?” Niall finally says, voice stained with disbelief.

“Yeah,” Louis says, “what, you think he doesn’t have any friends?”

“Well, not anyone we know anyway,” Stan says, “he hasn’t replied to our calls in weeks.”

“And _you_ haven’t either, for that matter,” Niall chimes in.

Louis bites his lip. “No,” he says lowly, and he does feel guilty, looking them in the eye now. If they only knew. “I’m sorry.”

“What the fuck’s he doing out with friends while you’re home alone drinking?” Stan asks.

Louis furrows his brows a little. “He’s allowed to go out without me. I’m allowed to have a glass of wine home by myself to unwind, I— why are you guys even here, unnanounced? Why are you showing up like this, attacking me like this, it’s really not fair, I—”

Niall must see that Louis’ about to humiliate himself, breaking down crying, so he swoops in then; “you’re right,” he says, “you’re right, we’re sorry. We’re sorry, we didn’t mean to come off so aggressive, we’re sorry. All right?”

Louis nods at the floor, wiping angrily his nose with the back of his hand. “All right.”

“We were just worried about you two. We miss you guys. You didn’t even come to Niall and Jen’s pokernight last week.”

Right. He didn’t even see the invite. “I’m sorry,” he says again, because he can’t come up with better, “I’m sorry, I’ve just been— we’ve had a bit of a row.”

“Yeah?” They don’t look at all surprised.

“Yeah,” Louis sighs. Even if he can’t bring himself to say everything, he’s got to say _something_. He isn’t fooling anyone either way. “Yeah, he’s— he’s actually not out with friends, really, he’s… he’s just, staying elsewhere for a bit.”

They nod. “Okay,” Niall says slowly, a deep line of concern etched between his brows, “okay, well, ehm… how long s’he been gone?”

“Couple weeks.”

Their brows shoot up. Louis regrets instantly. They weren’t expecting that. They definitely weren’t expecting that. “Wow,” Stan says, “so it’s a big one this time, then? Couple weeks, that’s— yous haven’t had one of those rows in years.”

Louis drops his head, shaking it. “Nope… Haven’t had a row like this, ever.”

“Wow, I— we… d’you want to talk about it, mate?”

Louis looks up at them again, and speaks firmly when he says; “lads. I would really, really, _really_ love to not fucking talk about it.”

And so, they don’t.

It’s a little strained at first, partly because they haven’t hung out in, like, ages and partly because there’s a giant elephant in the room and Louis can’t for the life of him ignore it when Stan and Niall keep looking at him like they’re afraid he’s going to sprint off to the balcony and make a jump for it. Eventually, though, they get the Xbox going and open a few beers - although Louis sticks to water, for obvious reasons - and things start to chill out a bit.

When Zayn arrives, with pizza and a worried look on his face, Louis almost feels all right having a bit of company. Almost better than he would’ve done on his own.

“Sorry it took awhile,” Zayn says to Louis when he lets him in, “had to kick out this bloke I’ve been shagging and then wait half an hour for the fuckin’ pizza’s. Anyway, how are you? They nag you about shit?”

Louis shakes his head. “They’ve been fine. If anything, I reckon they’re happy not to have to spend the night watching me moan and sob about my broken heart.”

“All right,” Zayn says, but it’s clear in his expression that the only bit he picked up on was the _my broken heart_ -part, “but, you’re— you smell a bit like booze, you’re not— you’re not killin’ yourself or anything?”

Louis averts his gaze and snorts. “Slowly, maybe.”

“Don’t drink at home alone, Lou,” Zayn says, “and I’m getting deja-vu because I feel like I’ve said this before.”

He has. Louis has too, to himself, every time he’s woken up for work in the morning feeling like he’s got a ton of bricks stacked on his forehead. “Yeah. I’ll get better. I’ll get better, I just—”

“I know,” Zayn tugs him in by the back of neck for a quick hug, “s’all right. You don’t have to— I’m just here.” He pulls back, pins Louis’ gaze down and raises his brows, “I’m here. You know that, right?”

“Yeah.”

“If you’re feeling shit and you’re home alone and you see that bottle, you go find your phone. You call me up. Then I come over and we can share that bottle together instead. Hell, I’ll bring my own bottle and we’ll be alcoholics together, yeah? Just… not alone, okay? I don’t like the thought of it.”

Louis manages a little smile. “Okay.”

“Promise?”

“Promise,” Louis says, and tells himself it isn’t a deliberate lie.

 

*

 

It’s when Niall and Stan have gone home to _the old ball and chain’s, but don’t tell’em we called’em that_ ’s, that Louis and Zayn find themselves crawling up in bed together, like they did when they were boys, and Zayn hooks one ankle over Louis’ and Louis doesn’t tell him how much that little bit of warm skin against his own saves his life tonight. He doesn’t have to, anyway. Zayn knows.

“Have you spoken to him?” Louis asks instead, staring up toward the ceiling he can’t see in the pitch-black room.

“Yeah.”

Louis swallows. “When?”

“Yesterday.”

“He called you?”

“I called him,” Zayn says, “I’d prepared this whole speech. I was gonna tell him off like no tomorrow, and I did, for a bit, but then…”

“What?”

“He just… sounded just as broken as you look. I don’t know. I mean, it’s— it’s nothing like with you, Lou, it’s never gonna be, like- we never really spoke all that much, you know that. Harry’s always been somewhat… far from everyone, in a way, he’s not— it’s you first, it’s always gonna be you first for us lads, it just is. But— but even so, I couldn’t help but hear him out, for a bit. If nothing else, then, I thought, maybe I could bring something useful back to you.”

Louis bites his lip over a _and could you?_ and waits for Zayn to go on by himself.

He does, after a long sigh; “ehm… he talked a lot, cause- well, I don’t know whether he doesn’t have anyone to talk to or he just— I don’t know, but—”

“Nick,” Louis blurts.

“Wha’?”

“He’s got Nick to talk to. That’s who he’s staying with at the moment, innit? So, he’s got Nick to talk to. And Tony too, I suppose.”

“Yeah, but, I— yeah.”

Louis waits in silence, expecting for Zayn to go on, because everything about what he just said and the way that he said it, sounded like it lead up to something more. Nothing comes.

“What?” Louis asks, once he gets too impatient, “you were saying something.”

“No, I wasn’t.”

“You were clearly saying something. What, I don’t know, but you were _clearly_ stopping yourself in the middle of—”

“He’s not with Nick.”

Louis’ lips click apart. “What do you mean?” he breathes, voice half-gone suddenly, “where else would he be at?”

The silence that follows gives Louis a second to think.

Right. Right.

“Never mind, I—”  he says, throat clogging up so fast he has to clear it twice before he speaks again, “never mind, I— don’t say it. You don’t have to, I— I don’t want to know.”

But he does. He does want Zayn to speak up. With everything he has in him he wants, _expects_ , for Zayn to tell him that he’s wrong.

He doesn’t. He goes quiet, so painfully quiet for much too long. Then he says, in this terribly soft little voice; “okay. I won’t say it.”

But he doesn’t really have to.

Louis screws his eyes shut and tugs at his own t-shirt, tugs it up to cover his face. He realises then, just by the smell of it, that it isn’t his own t-shirt; it’s Harry’s old one that he’s pulled on in a hurry without thinking.

And oh, he feels sick.


	21. Chapter 21

The next couple weeks go by with one of three things occupying Louis’ mind; alcohol, calling Harry and trying not to succumb toeither of the two first things. After Stan, Niall and Zayn pop by, Louis has one night off the bottle and then two walking around in such an alcohol-daze that he first forgets to go into work and secondly goes in, but gets pulled aside and asked whether he’s  _had a bit too much cough syrup this morning?_

After that, he manages not to drink by himself for a week.

Thursday, he meets with Niall at the pub over pints, talks footie and the weather, and pointedly doesn’t talk Harry at all. Judging from not-so-subtle glances and stunted phone-conversations, the lads have begun to understand that this isn’t just some little row they’ll get over like they always do. They’ve also, thank fuckably, understood that Louis is in no state what so fucking ever to talk about it anytime soon. He suspects they don’t mind one bit.

Friday, Louis drinks three bottles of disgusting pink wine with Eleanor and Idris, and then leaves abruptly when Idris loses whatever minuscule amount of inhibition he has in him and starts insisting they talk Harry.

Saturday, he ends up calling Harry. It’s the first time in what feels like forever - a few weeks, to be exact - and once he realises that Harry isn’t going to pick up, the sense of defeat rushes over him so violently that he just can’t forget about that bottle of Jack he has stashed in the back of the kitchen-cabinet.

He makes it all the way to the bottle, picks a very little glass out so as not to feel quite as much of an alcoholic, fills it to the brim, lifts it, and then catches a look of himself in the reflection of his window.

He’s in Harry’s reeking old t-shirt, and a pair of boxers he should’ve changed two days ago, his hair looks like shit, and his face too, and he’s all alone with a bottle of whiskey that’ll no doubt be gone in the morning if he doesn’t stop himself. He’s fucking pathetic.

He puts the glass down. Goes and picks up his phone. Reminds himself that he had two things he’d promised himself not to do this week and he can’t fail on both accounts in the space of one hour.

He calls up Zayn.

“Yeah?”

“You alone?”

“At a bloke’s, but it’s right around the corner from you,” Zayn replies, “you?”

“Yeah,” Louis says. He’s so lonely. He feels even worse, calling Zayn up now, knowing there’s only one person in the world who’ll make him feel better and he’s off fucking someone else. “You mentioned something about coming over if I was about to drink myself to death alone. Did you really mean that?”

“I’ll be there in five. Don’t start without me.”

 

*

 

Zayn brings cigarettes and jaffa cakes and an extra liter of milk, lest Louis should’ve forgotten to buy. Louis hugs him for so long that he looks blue in the face when he finally pulls back.

“Sorry, did I squeeze you?” he asks, grabbing the wine and leading the way into the kitchen while screwing off the lid.

“Hardly, you look like you haven’t eaten in a week,” Zayn mutters, “arms like fuckin’ toothpicks. Oh, and you reek.”

Louis has a swig of the wine. “Well, Zayn, if you don’t like the smell in the bakery—”

“Yeah yeah, just get me a light.”

Louis does that, and also finds a half-clean bowl and fills it with jaffa cakes, old biscuits and other snacky-type shit Harry’s left behind, while Zayn goes looking for the bong they haven’t used in ages. They camp out on the balcony, wrap themselves up in a duvet and then Louis goes into an embarrassing coughing fit from his first hit off the bong.

“Mate,” Zayn says, prying it from his hands and taking it back, “this is exactly why it’s a good thing that you’re free again. No one tell you what you can and cannot smoke.”

Louis resorts to the booze instead. “And by ’free’ you mean ’alone’?”

“No, by free I mean free,” Zayn takes the jack off Louis’ hands too, probably because he’s wincing and grimacing and still not stopping himself from chugging straight from the bottle over and over again, “nothing wrong in not being tied to anyone.”

“No, and I agree, but just cause I ain’t tied to him anymore don’t mean I’m not tied to my fuckin’ body, does it?” Louis says, and doesn’t let himself look at Zayn before finishing; “and every bone in my fuckin’ body wants him here with me, every fuckin’ hour of the day, every fuckin’—” he stops himself, just before his voice cracks and does it for him.

Zayn rummages around under the duvet they’re sharing, finds Louis’ thigh and gives it a squeeze. “I know.”

“And I fucking called him again earlier,” in for a penny, “I fucking called him and waited until it went to voicemail and then I fucking panted into the fucking voicemail for four fucking seconds before I hung up. How fucking pathetic am I?”

Zayn hands the bottle back over.

“Yeah,” Louis says, before he has a swig, and then a bite of a sawdusty old biscuit, and then another swig, “too fuckin’ pathetic for words, that’s right.”

Zayn just sighs and lifts the bong again.

They sit for a while, just stargazing, or staring into other people’s flats in the building across from them. There’s an old lady walking a cup of tea around her kitchen while she searches for something in all of her drawers and cupboards - the glasses sitting on her head, is Louis’ guess. There’s a teenager wanking off in front of his computer while trying to keep a pair of much too large headphones on his greasy little head.

There’s a young woman and man and a little boy in a high chair, eating dinner together.

Louis looks away again.

Something shitty must show on his face, because Zayn asks then; “what are you thinking about?”

“Nothing,” he replies, before he even processes the question. It’s just better, that way. Keeps him from having to say things aloud that he can’t even stand in his own head, “nothing, I’m fine, just spaced out.”

“Hm. Me too.”

Louis glances over at him. “Why?”

“Was thinking ‘bout you.”

An awfully long moment passes where he doesn’t follow up on it. In the end Louis gets sick of staring at the side of his face and gives in. “ _What_?”

Right then, Zayn decides to have another hit off the bong, because of course the does. Of course he needs to inhale deeply, and then show off, blowing smoke-rings and watching them evaporate in the dark night, before he answers the fucking question. “You need to get laid,” is what comes out, after all the screwing around. “You need to get well and properly…” he puts the bong down in favour of the wine, and finally looks Louis in the eye, “dicked.”

“Right.” Louis sighs. “Right.” He slumps back against the wall. “Thanks for the profound words of advice, mate, I’d have never known. I’d have never known, before, that all I need to do is have someone, anyone at bloody random, cram their male appendage up my backside and that’ll remove all my heart-ache, just like that.”

“Don’t forget famine and cancer,” Zayn supplies, “helps fuckin’ everything, that. You getting dicked.”

Louis gives a low laugh. “Jesus,” he murmurs, shaking his head as he fumbles to peel the strip off the cigarette-pack, “all right, I’ll do it if it also helps off the negative effects of smoking. I’ll do that for humanity, then. I’ll take a dicking.”

“Right, okay, I’ll just look it up, gimme a sec,” Zayn mutters, pulling out his phone and speaking aloud as he taps at random, “ _does Louis Tomlinson getting dicked by anyone at random help off his broken heart, as well as the negative effects of smoking_ …” he waits a second, then smacks his lips and shakes his head, “sorry to disappoint ya, mate, I just found the list and I’ve got famine… cancer… war… post-traumatic stress… no smoking. Nope. Sorry.” He flicks the phone off, “that’s a pity.”

“Fuckin’ shame,” Louis agrees, before he releases the laugh he’d been holding for what felt like ages. He realises, afterwards, that it’s the most he’s weeks. If that’s supposed to make him feel better, it doesn’t do it’s job very well. “Guess I won’t get dicked, then.”

“Guess you won’t,” Zayn chuckles.

He lets it go for a while after that. They drink and they smoke and they chat about nothing, people-watch and laugh a little bit. Zayn tells him about the hook-up he was with just earlier, about his Five Direction-pillowcase which got jizzed on, and how Zayn found out too late - whilst being in a very compromising position  - that the bloke still lived with his mum, and about the fact that he’s pretty certain he’s gone through the entire rotation of eighteen-to-twenty-one-year-old twinks in London and he’s contemplating raising the bar to twenty-two.

Zayn chats shit for so long that, once the booze is gone and they’re surrounded by cigarette-butts and most of the windows in the building across from them have gone black, Louis gets taken aback when he suddenly says; “but you _do_  need to get dicked, though.”

So taken aback - and drunk and high off his head - that, without thinking, he replies; “yeah, okay, but by who?”

“Hm…”

Zayn begins to shift around and, however drunk he is, Louis isn’t drunk enough not to know where he’s going with it.

“Don’t even think about it,” he says, “tuck that phone away, I’m not using Grindr.”

“Fuck you, it’s the best app in the word for easy dicking.”

“One; you’re wrong, everyone on that app and their mother’s a bottom,” Louis says, “and two; I’m not going on Grindr. And three; don’t ask me how I knew number one.”

Zayn laughs and slaps Louis on the thigh. It’s numb, he realises, from how cold he is. He’s just been too drunk to notice.

“Mate, I think we need to go insi—”

“Call Eleanor,” Zayn says, “call Eleanor, she’ll— she’s the biggest faghag I know, she’ll—”

“Mate, you’re drunk off your head, you—” Louis attempts to get up, but only reaches into a crouch before he loses balance and falls, knocking the empty jack-bottle over and setting it rolling off the edge of the balcony. “Woops,” he says, laughing, and crawls forward to check that it lands in a randomly open-standing bin or soft grass or, well— just not on top of someone's head.

It lands on asphalt, smashing to pieces. It scares a cat off, but other than that no major damage is done.

“Bloody hell,” Louis slurs, turning back around.

That’s when he realises Zayn’s got his phone in hand. It must’ve slipped out of his pocket when he decided to get himself pissed enough not to be able to get his body properly off the ground.

“Heeeey,” he says half-heartedly, “gimme that, it’sz property of- property of Louisz fuckin’….”

“Who’s Eli?”

Louis plops down on his bum. “Wha’?”

Zayn looks up from where he’s scrolling round on the phone. “Eli. S’right under Eleanor in your contact-book. S’got a winkey-face and everything by it.”

Slowly, the last ten seconds of conversation processes in Louis’ foggy mind. Fuck. “Gimme the bloody phone, Zayn, you—”

“Is it a boooooooy—”

“Gimme the fuckin’—”     

Louis falls over trying to reach for the phone and knocks his head into the brick-wall behind Zayn. Everything goes a bit black after that.

 

*

 

He wakes with a worse head-ache than he’s ever had after a night on the piss, and that’s saying a lot.

“Good thing you haven’t got work till tomorrow,” Zayn says, placing a glass of water and two Aspirins on the nightstand, “hang on, the kettle just clicked.”

Louis groans, hauling himself up to sit. When he goes to swipe his fringe aside, his hand brushes over a sore point at his temple. He gets up on his knees to check himself in the mirror above the dresser.

“What the fuckin’ hell is that?”

“That’s the face of alcoholism, my friend.” Zayn places a mug of steaming hot tea at Louis’ side and then slides into bed with him, sipping his own, “well, that, and you also knocked yourself out trying to get me not to text your boyfriend last night.”

Louis ignores him, thinking he’s just mumbling shit because he’s still a bit drunk from last night. He swallows his pills, then wraps the duvet around himself, takes his tea and pads into the livingroom. He settles in the couch, flicking on the telly, and Zayn joins him, ranting about how great it is that Louis hasn’t got a boyfriend telling him not to have a telly in the bedroom anymore.

“Tell you what, mate,” he says, sitting right down on Louis’ feet with all of his heavy eighty-two pounds of weight, “soon as this hang-over’s settled down, we’re going down the shops to get you a flatscreen for the bedroom and a spankin’ new bong and… what else is there— oh yeah, some blow, I know H didn’t let you do that either.”

“He also didn’t let me kill people for being too fuckin’ chatty when I’ve just woken up with a hang-over,” Louis says, “—  just, since we’re mentioning things that I’m free to do now.”

Zayn quiets down a bit after that.

 

*

 

A few hours later, late afternoon, when Louis is alone and in no mood or state to cook himself something up, he charges his phone and brings it back to life for pizza-ordering purposes.

That’s when he sees it.

**Eli ;) - sorry had a gig last night didnt see ur msgs lol**

**Eli ;) - and yeah, id love that :) free tonight if you want to come over**

**Eli ;) - long as ur spitting bf / ex isnt coming with that is ;P**

The back of Louis’ neck flushes hot. He scrolls backwards in the conversation, hands clenching up against his will, in dire need of punching Zayn in the throat.

The messages sent from ‘him’ to Eli last night don’t help stifle that urge one bit.

**Louis -  hey sexy ;)**

**Louis - what r u doing ?**

**Louis - wanna chill some time?**

**Louis - and netflux ;)**

Louis spends a second just staring at the screen, unblinking.

Then he calls up Zayn.

“What now?” he exclaims, “you already about to drink alone again?”

“What the _fuck_ ,” Louis grits out, “did you do?”

“What do you mean?”

“Last night. You’ve damn near bloody sexted Eli.”

Zayn chuckles. “Chill out, mate, just ghost him if you’re not into it.”

“Yeah, but—”

“And who the hell is he anyway? You’ve got Harry in there as fuckin’ _H_ and you put a winkey-face after some random bloke? I don’t think so. You two hook up or something?”

Louis groans. He really doesn’t need this. He really needs a drink. “Zayn,” he says, “Eli’s the stripper from your birthday party.” The line goes dead quiet. “He, ehm…” Louis goes on, “he must’ve put his name in my phone.”

“Right.” Another silence. “Right.”

“Right, _what_?” Louis ends up hissing, once impatience takes over.

“Right, well, what’s the fuckin’ problem, then? He’s fit, you’re fit, he’s into it, you must be too, since you fucked him so easily the first time. What’s keepin’ you? Casual Sunday night dicking. If you don’t go, I will. — In fact, I distinctly remember having had dibs on the bloke that night and you then going ahead and breaking every rule in the rulebook of friendships and birthdays by fucking him anyway. I think you owe this to me.”

“I owe it to you to get dicked by the stripper again?”

“I’d say it’s only fair.”

“ _You’re_ only fair,” Louis mutters childishly.

Zayn gives a long sigh.

“Lou, think for a minute,” he says, voice gone terribly serious all of a sudden, “you’re sitting at home alone sulking, worried about Harry and whether he’s going to call you back or not. All the while, he’s up in Sheffield, havin’ a merry fuckin’ time plowing baby mama’s brains out. Just. You know. Really let that sink in.”

“Fuck you,” Louis says, before he hangs up and doesn’t look at his phone again for a while.

 

*

 

One hour, to be exact. He’s sitting in bed, crushing Pringles in his hand and sprinkling them over minute-noodles when he receives another message.

**Eli ;) - Have you seen ‘it follows’?**

Louis frowns at the screen. He ends up typing back **no why?** , just because it’s easy and, well— he hasn’t spoken to anyone since Zayn left. He craves the interaction, even if it’s just a few pointless text-messages. He isn’t, hasn’t ever been, the type to find satisfaction in his own company, at least not for prolonged periods of time. He misses having someone around, even if they don’t talk, even if they just sit in the other corner of the room for four hours straight, sighing heavily into their laptop-screens and picking at their poor chapped lips.

He misses Harry so much he’s going crazy from it.

A response ticks in.

**Eli ;) - because I havent either.**

Hm. Louis types back **cool**.

Eli types back **its on netflix,** immediately followed by **… ;)**

Louis can’t help but grin at how shamelessly cliche Eli is, and types back **you know its brilliant to have found a genuinely nice guy who isnt just interested in getting his dick wet. Cuddles and movies > meaningless sex :) **

He isn’t sure what he expects in response, but he snickers when what he gets is; **whatever you say, princess** and an address underneath.

He begins to type out a politely declining response, when another message pops onto his screen.

**Zayn - has H even responded to your call from yesterday at all?**

And the smile just glides right off his face. No. Harry hasn’t responded to the call from yesterday, or the last message Louis sent before that, or any of the million other ways he’s tried to contact him since the last time he saw him. Harry took one look at Eli, spat on him and then fucked straight off up to Sheffield to fuck Marie. Which he’s probably still doing now. He’s probably not even purposely avoiding Louis’ calls, he just doesn’t have the time to look at them because he’s balls-deep in her little canary-yellow livingroom, making Charlie a baby sibling.

He’s left Louis here, all alone, and right now, it feels like Louis’ taken on both his own hurt and the hurt Harry’s supposed to be feeling but fucking isn’t, and it’s fucking _excruciating_.

And he can’t do it. He can’t sit here alone, in the bed that’s theirs, and be the only one who gives a fuck.

 

*

 

Eli’s building looks like so many other’s on the outside, but it’s vile on the inside, piss-stench and staircase so raggedy Louis fears for his life. When he finally thinks he finds the right door, it gets opened by a complete stranger.

“Eli?” Louis blurts, as if the guy’ll suddenly morph into a familiar face if he asks nicely enough.

“No,” the guy says. Right. “I’m his flatmate.” Oh. “George,” he says, reaching a hand out for Louis.

“Louis,” Louis croaks, letting his clammy hand get shaken about a bit. “Is he home? Eli.”

“Yeah, I think he’s in bed,” the guy mutters, leading the way through a narrow entrance. The floor is covered in trainers, jackets and bags and every surface in the little livingroom- and kitchen with beercans and takeaway-boxes. There’s a distinct smell of _boy_ in here.

Louis doesn’t mind it, really.

“Get up, you lazy bastard, you’ve got a visitor,” George says, ripping a door open.

Eli’s sprawled out on his bed, in a pair of grey trackies and nothing else. When he sees George, and then Louis, he doesn’t move to get up. A small smile spreads across his face. “Heey,” he says, “come in.”

George rolls his eyes and gestures for Louis to walk in. Louis nods awkwardly in thanks and the second he’s stepped across the threshold, George closed the door behind him.

“What happened to your head?”

“Nothing, I just, fell, sort of,” Louis says, rubbing at the bump. He regrets this. He regrets this so, so much. “I, ehm— I shouldn’t have come here.”

Finally, Eli sits up straight. “What are you on about, of course you should.” He pushes off the bed and maneuvers his way across his clothes-covered carpet to give Louis a hug. When he pulls back he dips in for cheeky peck on the lips and then gives Louis the most blatant elevator-stare. “You look good.”

Louis shrugs out of his arms. “Give it a rest, would you?”

“Mhm, from behind too, keep walking, _please_ —”

“Okay, I’m going to go, this is—”

Eli grabs him by the arm. “Hey,” he says, “sorry. Sorry.” He gives a little smile, which looks, well— not entirely stained with lust. “Just… get in bed and I’ll go make popcorn and tea and we can watch a movie, yeah? It’ll be cosy.”

Louis glances over at the bed. The bedsheets look all right. There aren’t any fresh stains to be seen, anyway. “Okay,” he sighs, “okay, all right. Yeah, okay.”

“Ace. Milk and sugar?”   

“Just milk, please.”

Eli nods, then turns, the turns again, smiles and says “you _do_ really look good, by the way, I didn’t just say that to say it” and then turns and leaves again. It’s sweet, Louis thinks, and it does warm a little, being reminded that he hasn’t lost all his sexual appeal in the midst of his depression. It gets a bit ruined when he overhears Eli’s conversation with his flatmate through the wall ( _was that the guy you fucked at Tilly’s thing? - no, the other one - oh, the one you fucked at the bachelor-party? - no, the other one. - oh, the one you fucked in the laundromat in the middle of the day? - you know what, never mind_ ).

Louis doesn’t mention it, though, when he comes back with tea and popcorn and a little bowl of chocolate and his abs look much too ripped for someone who ever indulges in any of the two latter.

“I’ve got my mate’s Netflix password,” he says, sliding into bed beside Louis.

It takes a second before Louis realises what he meant by it. “Oh, if you’re worried about that, I’ve got an account myself.” Well, it’s Harry’s, but— well. He’s sure Harry hasn’t changed the password. He’s a little scared to check now.

“No need, it’s fine.” Eli logs on and finds the movie and puts it on, pauses it and then attempts to puff some pillows up for them.

It feels a bit ridiculous, the entire set-up. Louis wonders how far they’ll get into the movie before Eli starts to try something.

He’ll wait and see, anyway, because he can’t quite bring himself to make a move yet. Isn’t sure whether he wants to. Well, his dick does, obviously, but if it were just about that he’d go online and find a million blokes who looked like Eli in a minute and be done with it in less than that.

No, he thinks, as they settle into the move and relax a little, and Eli’s thigh brushes up against his own, it’s about more than that. It’s nice to have someone close.

 

-

 

“ _Fuckin’_ hell!” Louis screams at one point, when he’s caught off guard by a jump-scare and can’t control himself.

Eli chuckles breathily. “You scared?”

“Fuck off,” Louis mutters, around where he’s biting down on his own fingertips.

Eli stretches with an exaggerated groan and then lets his right arm drop down around Louis’ shoulders. “There there,” he says, patting Louis’ arm, “I’ve got ya, darling.”

“Fuck off,” Louis says again, but it’s lower, purposely unconvincing, and he moves a little closer, slowly allowing his head to tip into Eli’s chest.

Things move slowly but surely after that. Eli’s fingers scratch lazily at Louis’ arm, his other hand moving steadily across his own stomach until it reaches Louis’. He threads them through Louis’, twitchily, waiting for him to move away and then squeezing gently when he doesn’t. The movie manages to run it’s entire course and they’re still lying like that, cuddled close and, amazingly, fully clothed.

They stay like that for a bit, unsure of what to say, as the subtitles roll by before them.

“Well,” Louis says, when the silence starts to get uncomfortable, “that was pretty sca—”

“Sorry, but, I’m like… _uncomfortably_ hard right now.”

Right. Well, then. “Oh.”

Eli shifts around a little, pushes the laptop off of himself and yes, yes he is indeed tenting in his trackies.

Louis stares at his bulge for a while, like a fifteen-year-old virgin, unsure of what to do next. A sudden screaming urge to flee courses through his body, but he doesn’t move. He doesn’t want to leave. He doesn’t want to go back home, to his cold empty flat. He doesn’t want to be alone tonight.

“Hey,” Eli says, and his face is closer than expected suddenly, breath puffing the side of Louis’ neck, “it’s only cause I find you so fucking irresisitible.”

Louis gives a squeaky snort.

Eli kisses his neck. He moves down it, small wet pecks, and Louis tilts into it, runs his fingers over his trim torso and downwards, ghosting a hand over his bulge. When, instead of squeezing or pulling Eli’s dick out, he moves his hands upwards again, Eli makes a little moaning noise in protest. It’s probably not even on purpose, but Louis still feels guilty.

He feels guilty, right then, because that’s the moment he realises he isn’t going to go through with this.

He can’t fuck this stranger, not again, not tonight, not tomorrow and not the day after that. However lovely, warm and big and nice he is, he isn’t Harry. He doesn’t smell like Harry, doesn’t feel like Harry, doesn’t sound like Harry, he just feels wrong in all the ways Louis can’t describe in any other way than simply saying _you’re just not him_.

“Hey,” Eli says, when he realises he’s losing Louis, hand sliding up the back of Louis’ thigh, “hey, get on top of me, put your arse on my cock.”

Louis drops his head. Fuck. “I’m sorry.”

“It’s cool, we’ll take it slow, it’s all right,” Eli says, hands still wandering, hoping for more, “just, c’mere, straddle me, we’ll—”

“No, seriously, I can’t.” Louis pushes off of him and sits up. “Fuck, I’m sorry. Shit.” He throws a hand through his fringe, sighing exasperatedly, “I thought I could, but I just can’t.”

A hand comes crawling up his hunched back. “Don’t apologise, it’s all right.”

“Fuck, I don’t think it’ll ever be all right.”

Eli gives a small laugh. “I’ve dealt with a cock-tease or two in my day, I think I’ll survive,” he says, “alternatively, you can suck my cock for a bit, that might help it.”

Louis groans. “I’m sorry, I’m going to go now.”  

“No, hey,” Eli exclaims, grabbing him by the arm, turning him round, “hey, don’t go, we can— we can watch something else if you want? We can just cuddle or something.”

Louis raises a brow at him.

“No, _really_ cuddle,” Eli insists, “hey, don’t look at me like that, stripper’s have feelings too, you know. We need human affection once in a while, too. I’ll just go and, ehm— you don’t mind tugging me off quickly, do you?” When he sees Louis’ reaction, he quickly adds; “kidding, I was kiiidding, I’m sorry. Just— come on, lets watch something else.”

Louis crosses his arms over his chest. “Why?”

“Because,” Eli’s throws his arms out, “because it was nice. Just lying here. It was all right, didn’t you think?”

“Hm.” It was better than being alone. “Yeah, it was all right.”

“You’re a good cuddler. And I am too, I’ve been told.”

“Hm.” Louis bites his lip for a second, then decides that this is better than going home and relents. “All right, then. Okay.”

“Great!” Eli pushes off the bed, “be right back, just have to run and wank into the sink.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello, just wanted to say that my tumblr is pointerbrotherblog and I have a link for this fic there if any of you are into tumblr and reblogging stuff and that kind of thing. 
> 
> I'm not very good with it myself, so excuse the state of my blog, though :)


	22. Chapter 22

He ends up falling asleep at Eli’s place that night, and waking up too late to make it back home and then to work in time. Eli offers to drive him to work and, since he definitely can’t afford pissing his boss off again any time in the foreseeable future, he takes it. They chat a bit - mostly Eli, but Louis hums and nods when appropriate -  and then Eli makes him promise that they’ll _do this again, yeah?_

It becomes a reality two nights later, when Louis just can’t stand the quiet any longer. And then again on the weekend. And then again the following Tuesday. And then slowly, but surely, it becomes a nightly thing. They only hang out at Eli’s place, because Louis, stupid as he still is, can’t bear the thought of letting him into his and Harry’s home, not again.

Even if Harry doesn’t give a fuck anymore.

They only hang on weekdays, because Eli’s got his gigs on the weekend, and it’s as casual as can possibly be. Eli even cancels on him one evening, with the simple text  _sorry got a guy coming over, hoes before bro’s_.

And maybe that’s all they are, really. Bro’s. Maybe telling himself that makes Louis feel better. Less scared of the hypothetical possibility that Harry might find out about it and be less hypothetically inclined to come back to him.

They do snuggle a lot more than what Louis’ ever done with any of his ‘bro’s. Louis ends up sleeping over one evening, when they’ve had a few beers too many and it’s much too late to go home alone anyway, and Eli kisses on him for a bit before they fall asleep. Zayn can’t for the life of him fathom what’s keeping Louis from just pouncing on the bloke again, but Zayn can’t for the life of him fathom a lot of things. He doesn’t get what it’s like to have invested more than just your dick in another person. He doesn’t get what it’s like to miss them so much you feel like killing yourself when someone touches you and it just isn’t the same, isn’t enough, won’t ever be. He doesn’t get to tell Louis what he’s supposed to feel.

Louis’ tried that himself before and it didn’t help a fucking thing.

He still feels like shit. Even with Eli cuddling him and laughing at his dry running movie-commentary and boosting his ego, continually trying his luck by ‘discretely’ pressing his boner up against Louis’ bum when they spoon, just to let him know it’s there and ready to go if he wants it. He still feels like utter shit.

Of course, in the midst of that, he forgets that Eli isn’t actually blind.

“You’re so fuckin’ miserable all the time,” he says one evening, when they’re watching some Netflix-series they’ve had going for a few nights now, and Louis can’t even remember the name of the main guy. They’re lying in Eli’s bed, like they always are, Chinese take-away boxes strewn across the mattress, and Eli’s right leg hooked over Louis’.

“What do you mean? I’ve just eaten, you paid, I’m watching a good series and you’re giving me a backrub later on, how the fuck could I ever be miserable?” 

Eli usually gets the hint whenever he’s poked at something that sticks a bit too deep for what they are and definitely aren’t, but maybe he’s a bit too high tonight, or maybe he just doesn’t give a fuck. Either way, he hits the space-button on his laptop, shifts around to meet Louis’ eye and says; “mate, I’m not a piece of fuckin’ cardboard. I’m just as capable of talking as any of the friends you’re clearly blowing off in favour of hanging out with me every night.”

Louis sighs and scrubs a hand across his face. He’s right. Louis  _has_ been prioritizing Eli over any of his friends lately. It’s just been… easier to be around someone who doesn’t know you well enough to call you out on your bullshit or pry right where it hurts. He’d hoped it’d stay that way for a while.

But then again, he supposes Eli’s an actual person too, somewhere behind the washboard abs and the blinding veneers. “Sorry,” he says, “you know how it is.”

“No,” Eli replies blankly, “I don’t because you’ve never told me. You never tell me fuckin’... anything. Come to think of it, I don’t even know your last name.”

Louis gives a dry chuckle, just at the absurdity of it. “Fuckin’ hell.”

“Well, what it is, then? S’it like, something ugly or embarrassing?” Eli digs, grin spreading across his face, “s’it Hitler? S’your last name Hitler, s’that the big secret?”

Louis can’t help another little laugh. “Shut up,” he groans, rolling onto his back and picking up a near-empty box of fried noodles just to entertain his hands, “you don’t want to know about my shit.”

“Oooh, look at me, all deep and dark and damaged.”

“Shut up.”

“Stop tellin’ me to shut up all the time, you fucking twat.”

It’s harsh enough that Louis looks up. When he does, Eli bursts into a laugh. Louis does too, just because it’s infectious. “Don’t call me a twat, you fuckin’ slag.”

Eli slaps at him. “Don’t call me a slag, you fuckin’ cunt.”

Louis gets slapped again so he slaps back and then manages to laugh out “don’t call me a cunt, you fuckin’ dick” before Eli’s whacked his noodle-box away and is climbing on top of him, pinning his wrists above his head and surging right down for his neck.

“Fuckin’ faggot,” he says, just before he sets his teeth into the skin of Louis’ neck, dragging an involuntary loud gasp from him.

Taken by the moment, and the fact that Eli’s been shirtless and flexing those fucking moviestar-abs on purpose all night, Louis wrestles his wrists free and reaches down to grab him by the bum and get him closer. “Who’re you calling a faggot,” he mutters gruffly, as Eli’s hard bulge presses down on his own.

“Okay, you’ve got to— you’ve _got_ to give it up now,” Eli says, suddenly pulling back, “fuck, mate, you’ve got to at least suck me off, I’m dying here.”

He looks like it. So much, in fact, that Louis can’t stop himself from laughing again.

“It’s not fuckin’ funny, mate, my balls are nearly as blue as your beautiful eyes.”

Louis barks a laugh this time. “Nice one,” he says, lifting a lazy hand for high-five, “two birds in one stone, I like it.”

Instead of high-fiving him, Eli whacks his wrist away and goes straight for his belt. “I’m gonna fuck you,” he says, matter-of-factly, “I’m, it’s— it’s just gotta be done, mate, your arse is fuckin’ beggin’ for it in those jeans, it’s not even a matter of choice anymore.”

Louis laughs, watching Eli go red in the face as he attempts to shimmy the jeans down Louis’ deadweight-thighs. In the end, he realises the teasing’s gone a bit too far and that it really isn’t fair, knowing with himself that it just isn’t going to happen. The thought of letting someone that isn’t Harry fuck him right now, and then Eli of all people, it’s just— not going to happen.

“Hey,” he says, scooting back to sit up and take Eli by the shoulders, “get on your back, yeah?”

Eli tips back easily, watching Louis get on top of him, licking his lips in anticipation.

Louis scoots downwards, pulls Eli’s cock out and, without allowing himself much further pre-thought, puts it in his mouth.

-

It’s after he’s had his lips and collarbones decorates in white, and then awkwardly stumbled off to the loo to wipe it off, that he looks himself in the eye and wishes he hadn’t.

Eli finds him out there, many minutes later, hunched over the sink and crying quietly.

He sees the reflection of Louis’ snotty face before Louis has a chance to hide it and then comes over and links an arm around him from behind.

“You really miss your ex-bloke, yeah?”

“All the fucking time.” 

Eli doesn’t say anything else, but Louis thinks he feels him nod against the back of his shoulder.

They go back to bed a while after, and Eli offers to return the favour, and Louis tells him no, it’s all right, he doesn’t want it. Then Eli apologises for even asking for anything to begin with and Louis feel like the biggest dick in the world, but instead of apologising he starts to cry again. Eli scoots closer then, wraps his arms around him and tells him all the things a nice person tells someone when they don’t really know them well enough to tell them anything at all.

 

-

 

In the morning, though, Eli puts his phone down the second he sees that Louis’ awake, and asks; “are things not over with him yet? Be honest, you know I don’t care either way.”

“Jesus,” Louis groans, “I just woke up.”

“Just answer me, it’s not that hard. I don’t care either way, you don’t care either way, just tell me already. Are things properly over and done with or are you still kind of… hoping to rekindle shit with him?”

Louis bites his lip. On one hand he still can’t quite wrap his head around the idea of it being fully over without wanting to shoot his brains out. On the other, he can’t for the life of him see how they’d ever come back to each other again. If Harry still cared, he’d have known. He’d have known by now.

“I think it’s properly done with,” he says, for the first time out loud. It hurts so bad he has to bite his lip again not to cry in broad daylight.

Eli nods. “Well, then,” he says, “I think you should come with me to America.”

“What?”

Eli raises his brows at him like _he’s_ the crazy one. “You should,” he says slowly, “come with me. To America.”

“Yeah, I heard you the first time.” Louis scratches at the back of his neck. “But, ehm… what do you mean? Exactly?”

“Look.” Eli hands him a smoke, has a drag of his own and exhales, shaking his head, “the lads and I are going to Vegas for a strip-convention next weekend. They’re just going for the weekend, but I’ve got a friend in L.A. who’s hooked me up with a nice little cellar-flat in L.A. and I think I’ll go there next. He’s going to New York for two or three months and I get to stay there cheaply for a while. I thought I might as well go and have a proper shot at the whole acting-thing,” he explains, “and you should come with.”

Louis’ still frowning so hard he’s beginning to get a head-ache.

“I’ve got a job,” is what he manages to say, when he realises Eli’s waiting for an answer, “I’ve got a job, I’ve got a flat, I’ve got a—”

“A _what_?” Eli asks, pointing his cigarette at him, “you’ve got an ex boyfriend who’s clearly not coming back to you, a failed dream of becoming an actor and an office-job that you fuckin’ hate, that’s what you’ve got.”  

And— wow. “Fuck you,” Louis says, “you don’t know me, how do you even— _actor_? I’ve never wanted to become an actor, that’s _your_ whole… thing.”

Eli waves a hand out dismissively. “Actor, drama-teacher, potatoe, potatoe, you told me a lot of shit that night you passed out pissed,” he says, “and, either way, it wouldn’t hurt you to get some hands-on experience with acting and get the fuck away from this sorry little rut you’ve got yourself stuck in. Do you really want to keep having your  _only_ source of happiness in life be this one guy? This one guy who’s not even fuckin’ with you anymore?” 

“That’s not how—”

“Well, correct me if I’m wrong, but I’m relatively unbiased and, to be honest, from what you spilled and the amount that you’ve moped and cried in the short time that I’ve known you, it looks like that bloke could do just about anything to you and you’d still end up taking him back.”

Louis shakes his head. “Fuck you,” he says again, scanning the room for his phone and keys, “fuck you, you don’t know shit about me.”

“I know that my ex-boyfriend was a lot like you,” Eli says, “dead-end job that he fucking despised, no hobbies, no ambitions, just like— dragging himself through the day and then coming home and fucking and then fucking clinging to me all evening.”

“Well, sorry if I’m not twenty anymore, and don’t want to go out every night and rip my shirt off in front of a hundred people.”

Eli sighs. “You’re right, but like… don’t you want to have something else that you like, really love? Isn’t it better to have something else to fall back on so you don’t get so fucking miserable you want to off yourself the second you lose that _one_ thing you depended on?”

“Eli, when two people really fit, the idea of needing something to fall back on is just… wrong. You just, you just know it’s going to last.”

“Yeah, that’s what my ex and I said too,” Eli says, “and yet, here we sit.”

 

*

 

He leaves shortly after that whole debacle. He comes home to the flat that he left, dark and cold and disgusting. He turns up the heat, fills up the dishwasher and swipes a few counters, then smokes a blunt while watching the late news because his jaw sort of aches from getting his mouth fucked earlier so it’s medication, not drug-abuse, he tells himself.

And then, just as he’s about to call it a night and go to bed, the door-phone rings.

“Yeah? Who is it?”

“Me.”

And— his heart just sinks. It’s so stupid. It’s so fucking useless. It’s still out of his control, that he reacts that way. “Come up, then.”

Zayn brings a sixpack and smokes and his excuse as to why he’s showing up unannounced again is _well, it’s a Saturday night and I figured you’d be alone, I wouldn’t consider myself a proper friend if I didn’t force my company on you_.

“Well, thanks for the pity-visit,” Louis mutters, rubbing at his tired eyes as he shows Zayn into the livingroom, “but I really didn’t mind the night alone.”

“Tough luck,” Zayn says, plopping down on the couch and signaling for Louis to get him a light, “unless— wait, were you having your new fella over?”

“Don’t have a new fella, so no.”

“You know who I meant. Your stripper.”

Louis throws him the light, a little aggressively, and then sits down directly on his feet to make him whine.

“But I _was_ over at Eli’s place earlier,” he says after a moment.

Zayn’s eyes go wide. He makes an obscene gesture.

Louis whacks out at him. “No, of course we didn’t! You’re fucking intolerable sometimes, Zayn.”

“What’s fuckin’ intolerable is watching you forcibly keep yourself from fucking one of the fittest guys I’ve ever seen in real life. And over what? Hoping fucking Harry’ll get kicked out by mummy and come crawling back here?”

Louis ignores him because he’s being needlessly mean about it, and it hurts, and just replies with; “Eli asked me to come to America with him.”

That finally seems to get Zayn quiet for a second. “Wha’?” he eventually says, “what, like—”

“Like, he’s going up to Las Vegas for some stripping-thing with his mates and then he’s gotten a place offered in L.A. for a couple months and he’s going to stay there. Make a go of his acting-dream, I think. And anyway, he asked me to join. Get away from things for a while.”

“Wow.”

Louis nods. “Yeah, wow. I mean, it wasn’t like— I’m sure he’s plannin’ to fuck every hole in L.A. once he gets there, it’s not… it was just an offer he made me. As friends, I suppose. Because I’m stuck in a rut. Well, that’s what he said, anyway.”

“That’s a brilliant idea.”

Louis looks up.

“I mean it,” Zayn insists, eyes a bit too big and bright, “seriously, what’ve you got to lose? You fuckin’ hate your job, don’t ya?”

“I wouldn’t say I _hated_ —”

“You fucking hate this flat, you’ve always said the kitchen had a funny smell.”

“I’ve never said that, _you_ said that, on our moving-in day and Harry was really fucking angry with you.”

“Whatever. Whatever. All I’m saying is, I reckon you should go for it. Try something new for a change. Get out there. Experience life. Now that you’re finally… you know, and you’d do well with the men out there, they love the accent.”

But he’s not half as discrete as he thinks he is. “Now that I’m finally, _what_?”

“What?”

“You said ‘now that I’m finally’ and then you stopped. Then you stopped yourself. What were you saying?”

Louis stares at him for so long, so relentlessly, that in the end he cracks and cuts his gaze away.

“Now that you’re finally free,” he says, “now you’re finally free of, like… that whole thing you’d had yourself wrapped up in with him.”

“What thing? — No, don’t look away, what thing? I’d really like to know, what such horrible thing did I have myself wrapped up in for the past eight years of my life that you never _once_ bothered to inform me about till now, huh?”

Zayn gives an exasperated sigh. “Just, that… you know, haven’t you ever considered the possibility of leaving him? Like, properly, ever?”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean… I mean that, fuck, I’m not sure what I fucking mean, I just—” he shakes his head at himself, “it’s just always seemed like no matter what, no matter how much you two fought, no matter fuckin’ _anything_ , you’d stay with him. You’d just stay. And, like… I guess I just brushed it off as you two getting over shit and it not being as bad as it sometimes seemed, but then— when he finally went and did something unforgivable, something pretty fucking inexcusable, you _still_ stayed with him.”

Louis clears his throat. “I haven’t forgiven him.”

“No, I— I’m sure you haven’t, but you still, like— you obviously shouldn’t have stayed, you ended up fucking around on him too. You ended up fucking around on him too, but I know you - and don’t give me that look, because it’s true, I’ve known you longer than you’ve ever known him and I _know_ ; you’d have _never_ done that. You’d have _never_ done such a thing, ever, you’ve never _once_ in your life.”

He looks Louis right in the eye and Louis can’t do anything but drop his gaze.

“But, with Haz, you were so fucking scared of being alone, or being without him, that you ended up staying when you should’ve left, you should’ve fucking left, even if just for a while, and then you did something you’d have never done. Can’t you see that that’s fucked up? That it’s so fucking impossible for you to ever consider actually leaving him, even if he did something horrible, even if you’re the most fucking miserable you’ve ever been, can’t you see that that’s fucked up?”

“Did you ever consider the possibility,” Louis says, and his voice is just, rubbish, “that I just love him?”

“Course I did, and I do believe that you do,” Zayn says, “but what I just talked about has nothing to do with love, Lou. You can love someone and still know when it’s time to go. In fact, you have to, if you give just the slightest bit of a fuck about yourself as well.”

 

*

 

When Louis comes home from work the following day, and there’s a message from Eli on his phone, asking how he’s feeling about the whole America-thing and reminding him to buy tickets soon if he doesn’t want to have to pay over-price, Louis calls him up.

Which, realises when Eli picks up with a groggy _‘ello?_ is the first time he’s ever done that.

“Hi, Eli, mate, it’s Louis.”

“Why the hell are you calling, did someone die?”

Louis makes an offended noise. “What, a guy can’t call another guy just to call anymore?”

“Louis, nobody calls anymore, this isn’t fucking… twothousand five or some ancient piss.”

Louis laughs. “Okay. I’m sorry. Would you prefer it if I hung up and messaged you what I wanted to say instead?”

He makes a show of hesitating. Louis laughs again. “Nah, might as well. In for a penny and all that, eh?”

“Sure,” Louis grins, “anyway, I just called to disappoint you, sadly. I won’t be going to America.”

“Oh, get over yourself, ‘called to disappoint me’, who do you think you are, the queen of England or something?”

“I’m sorry,” Louis chuckles, “you’ll be all right, though, won’t you?”

“Gee, I don’t know, Louise, I was sort of hoping you’d take my hand in marriage one of these up-coming days.”

“I’m sorry.”

“So, is this you breaking up with me?”

Well. “If you can even— I mean, a few smooches and a sloppy blowjob, does that even really warrant a proper ‘break up’?”

“Don’t sell yourself short like that, that blowjob meant something. That blowjob was _special_.”

“You’re priceless,” Louis chuckles, “really, I think this is the funniest kind of-break up I’ve had. Kudos to you for that.”

“Yeah, I’m used to getting dumped, so…”

“Oh, don’t say that, now I feel like shit.”

Eli laughs. “No, it’s all right, mate, you do your thing,” he says, “but just one last question, ehm…”

“What?”

“Is it because I’m ugly?”

“Yes.”

“I fuckin’ knew it.”

And then Louis laughs again and Eli tells him to call if he ever wants to shag - _actually_ shag - and hangs up and then that’s sort of that. Easy as.

He feels empty when he plops down on his couch, though, like he forgot to say something or take something from it. There’s something missing, something he’d never even thought about before yesterday. By the time he’s watched telly for an hour or two, the news and then a random documentary about Tibetan monks because he couldn’t be bothered to get the remote, he thinks he knows what it is.

He does want to go away.

And even if he doesn’t want to, he _needs_ to. There’s work, then there’s telly, then there’s more work, more telly, boozing on the weekends and waking up alone, and then the whole thing over again. It used to be all right. It used to be enough because he loved part of it so much he didn’t care if the other’s were a little bit shit. Now, he’s lost that one thing that he loved, the only thing he’s felt properly excited about for so many years he can’t remember if there ever was anything else. Now he has nothing, nothing that interests him enough, challenges him enough, to distract from how much he misses Harry.

He needs something. Something more.

Even if it means he ends up looking at tickets to Tibet and feeling like the biggest fucking cliché, thinking he might as well just order Eat, Pray, Love and start bragging about asparagus and barefeet in the workplace.

But, it’s a start. There are things out there, things he’s never done, never thought to do, there are things in life, aside from Harry, that might actually be able to make him feel alive.

He just has to start somewhere.

 

-

 

 

Three hours later, he still hasn’t decided where to go or what to do there. All he knows is that he isn’t going to let himself be stuck anymore. He’s staring at his laptop, at a finished letter of resignation, heart pumping a little faster, chest a little lighter, for the first time in ages. There’s a suitcase on his bed, half-stuffed with clothes, half-waiting for the last laundry-load to be done, and there’s a passport, lying out on the kitchen-counter, there’s money enough on his saving’s account, there’s an airport full of opportunities.

There’s the doorphone, suddenly screaming through the flat.

“ _Fuck’s_ sake, Zayn,” he hisses, picking up the phone, “I was nice about it last night, but you’ve really got to start texting ahead before you show up here, mate.”

The line cuts off.

“What the hell…”

Louis looks at the phone as if it’ll give him an answer, but it doesn’t, so he ends up going back to the livingroom. He checks his mobile, just to be sure Eleanor hasn’t been nagging him about some party or Zayn’s suddenly begun to fear that he’s killed himself in the short space of time they’ve been apart, but nothing’s there. No one’s called.

Then there’s a knock on the front door.

Without thinking, or stopping once, without giving himself a second to consider the fact that there’s only one other person besides himself who could’ve gotten to the door without being buzzed up first, Louis’ opening it.

He’s opening it and he’s looking at Harry.

“Lou,” he breathes, panting like he took the stairs, but he didn’t, that’s not why he’s out of breath, Louis can tell by the look in his eyes.

He opens his mouth to respond, but that’s when he realises Harry isn’t alone. The red puffer jacket he’s holding in his arms starts to move. A little hand slips out at the top and pulls at Harry’s cheek and the kid gives a sleepy little whimper and then goes still against his chest again.

“Sorry, I had to—” Harry hitches her up again and Louis’ breath hitches, too, “had to bring her with, I’m sorry, I— please, can I come in?”

Stuck for words, Louis stumbles backwards, giving him way in.

“I’m sorry, I— shit, I’m sorry, I’ve, I, uhm…” he toes off his shoes and tugs the jacket away, revealing Charlie on his arm, clutching his t-shirt, drooling on his collarbone, “I—”

Louis just stares at them both. However lightened he felt a moment ago, it’s gone, it’s all gone, everything’s twisted up inside him, tightened, and it’s a struggle just to breathe. He doesn’t speak.

“I have to speak to you, I’ve—” Harry hasn’t looked at him since Charlie half-awoke and she’s wriggling again now, unhappy with the seating arrangement.

“Put her on the couch, then,” Louis hears himself say. His voice doesn’t sound like his own.

Harry looks up, then nods, wide-eyed and nervous, and it takes all Louis has not to ask him what the hell is going on before he’s put the little one down and tucked a blanket in around her.

He makes it into the kitchen as Harry starts to hum something soft to get her to doze back off again, closes the door behind him and then grips the edge of the sink to keep from falling.

He’s still in shock, staring at a soggy old tea-bag, when the door opens behind him and then closes again.

He stares at that stupid tea-bag, and thinks, _three months ago you’d have told me off for leaving it there. Three months ago, I’d have flicked you on the back of the neck as you scrubbed the stain off the steel and you’d have told me to fuck off and then caught me by the wrist when I tried to and flicked me back and I’d have laughed._

 _Now I’m shit-scared of every next word you say_.

“Louis, I’m, I— my words are fucking fucked right now, I… Okay, what I wanted to say was— what I came here to say,” he cuts himself off with a sharp inhale, then says; “please don’t go with him.”

It makes so little sense, whatever he’s trying to say and whatever Louis thinks the main point was, that he’s tempted to turn around just to try and read Harry’s expression, but he doesn’t do it. He keeps his gaze pinned to the stupid teabag in the sink, clears his throat and asks; “What the hell are you talking about?”

“Your stripper,” Harry says, right away, “I know what— I know you and him are going off to fucking America or something and that’s great, that’s brilliant for you two and I want you to be happy, I do, Lou, but I— I just don’t,” he says, “I just really really actually don’t want you to be happy. At all. If it’s not with me.”

Louis turns then, spins around actually, and before he’s even realised it he’s saying, shouting maybe, “where the fuck do you get off coming here now?” Harry’s mouth falls a bit slack at that, even as he tries to pull it back up quick as it happens. He hadn’t expected it, and frankly, Louis hadn’t either, but once he’s going he just can’t stop himself; “no, where the _fuck_ do you get off bargin’ in here at shit in the evening, telling me what I can and cannot do with the life you’ve made it so abundantly clear you don’t want to be part of anymore?”

Harry presses his lips together, nodding like he knows it, all of it, like he’ll take any insult Louis throws at him and admit to it all. He looks like he’s fighting not to cry. “I, uhm—”

“Who told you that?” Louis cuts through, because the only thing that seems to keep his voice from shaking is fueling it with anger, “who the fuck told you, have you been going round asking about me and—”

“Doesn’t matter who told me,” Harry says, wiping a hand over his sniffly nose, “doesn’t matter, Louis, but I heard you were going with him and— and I just had to come here.”

But he doesn’t really have to say anything more. Louis locks his arms over his chest. “Spoke to Zayn, then, did you?”

Harry swallows. “Does it matter?” he asks, and his voice is small, pleading, as he tilts his head and looks at Louis, “I just wanted to… I just wanted to see you and I—”

“Well, Zayn’s been filling you with a load of shit,” Louis cuts through, turning his gaze away just before his mask cracks, “I’m not going with anyone anywhere.” And then he can’t stop himself; “and anyway, what do you care? Marie kick you out or something?”

“Kick me out?” Harry echoes, confused, “what, I— Louis, I came here cause I heard that you were going with him and I just realised— I just realised I— I didn’t know you really meant it with him. Or that he’d— well, I understand him, just look at you, I mean—  but please just… I—”

“ _What_?” Louis hisses, and when he looks up he knows he’s fucked up. He can see it, right as Harry sees his face, that he isn’t fooling anyone anymore. He’s missed Harry so much it’s felt like his entire body’s been aching, just hurting, through to the bone, and now he’s got him here and he doesn’t feel better. He doesn’t feel better because Harry’s five feet away from him and it feels like a million miles.

His skin looks so, so soft and Louis wants to touch it, wants to draw him in and bite him, smell him, kiss him, taste him again.

“Please,” Harry says, and then he steps closer, because Louis’ face is telling him yes, even if his mouth says otherwise. “Please,” he says again, and his voice sounds like home, lips so red it hurts, eyes so big and earnest Louis almost fools himself into believing this is all it takes to be all right again.

“Please,” Harry says, for the third time, when his arms wrap around Louis’ waist. “Please,” he says, cold face in Louis’ neck. “Please, you don’t belong with him. You don’t want him. I’ve been so stupid, Lou, I— I’ve been so stupid.”

Louis stands stiff in it for a second, then tries to push Harry off, before he’s sure whether he really means to or not. It sets off a reaction in Harry, one he knows, one he’s seen before, on a late night like this. His hands get grabby, nose digs in, lips wet and smacking on any and every part of Louis’ skin he can plant them, voice goes hoarse and shaky; “please. Please, Louis, please, please, please,” he begs, “please, I’m sorry, please, please, you don’t really want him, it’s— we were meant to be together, it was meant to be us, it wasn’t— we were meant to find each other again, you weren’t supposed to run away with him—”

“Harry—”

“You don’t want him,” Harry says, suddenly, pulling back, and somehow both manages to sound like he’s giving an order and asking a question, “you don’t,” he insists, “tell me you don’t.”

Louis blinks slowly. “I don’t,” he finally says, because it’s true. “You tell me something in return,” he adds, because he has to, suddenly needs to, “and if you lie to me now — and I’ll see it if you do, don’t think that I won’t — I will never, ever, _ever_ speak to you again, I can promise you that.”

Harry nods.  

“Have you fucked her? Since you left me? Have you touched her, at all, have you— have you?”

It takes less than a second for Harry to reply. It feels like so long that Louis’ suffocating, because he’s holding his breath, can’t not.

And then Harry lets him breathe again; “no, of fucking _course_ I haven’t.”


	23. Chapter 23

“You haven’t?”

Harry doesn’t blink. “Not once.”

A shaky breath falls from Louis’ lips, but it doesn’t feel like relief. It feels worse, like that night he couldn’t stop asking _didyoufuckherdidyoufuckherdidyoufuckher_ , like no matter how many times he asks, how many no’s he gets, it won’t be enough. Part of him looks up at Harry, at his parted panting lips and the deep line etched between his brows and the desperate look in those green eyes that Louis knows so well, and believes him. Part of him fears he’s lying to himself more than anything, when he looks at Harry and tells himself that the man he shared his bed with for eight years isn’t capable of lying to his open face without so much as a twitch.

“I don’t believe you,” is what he ends up saying.

Harry’s eyes shoot up a little, like he hadn’t expected it. It looks like he’s fighting not to raise his voice when he replies; “I’m telling the truth. I’m telling the fucking truth, Louis, you have to—”

“Okay, I believe you,” Louis says, even though he isn’t sure whether he means it, “okay. Okay, but— I’ve, I… I don’t know what you want from me.”

“Anything,” he says, “anything, I want— anything you’ll give me, if- if you’ll give me any amount of time just to talk or, anything, Lou, I— I know I don’t deserve it.”

He stops there, sucks his bottom lip in and just looks at Louis, waits. He’s still tipped into Louis, leaning him backwards over the counter a bit, and his hair’s come undone from the loose bun he had it in, falling down the side of his neck. It smells, even without burying his nose in it, of the kiwii-shampoo he buys in bulk and spooning him on a summer morning, face in the nape of his sweaty neck. Louis wants to rake his fingers through it, fists it and yank him close. Yank him till he hurts.

He settles for grabbing onto his blue cotton-shirt and tugging him in.

Harry whines, falling into him, sloppily kissing his way up from Louis’ chin till he finds his mouth and tongues in. Louis lets him, hands going where they want, fisting up in the heat of his hair, pulling so hard he’s sure he’d hear Harry wincing if he weren’t too busy kissing. His mouth feels bruised, frayed, lips taste metallic when Louis licks at them, but his movements are familiar, the way his cold nose-tip flops over Louis’ when he tilts his head, the way he keeps kissing, and kissing, until Louis’ fingertips are throbbing from lack of oxygen.

Harry’s gasping too when he pulls back, but doesn’t spare himself a second to catch his breath, just goes to Louis’ jaw, nips and bites on the underside of it, licks down his neck and sucks at his collarbones. Louis’ panting, gasping, Harry’s hair in a crampish grip still, and he feels like he’s about to lose his balance, but he can’t bring himself to care.

“Baby,” Harry says against Louis’ throat, voice rough.

“Yeah,” Louis breathes, pulling him up by the hair and kissing him again.

He begins to undo Harry’s shirt-buttons, hastily, just yanking at them till they give, and Harry pushes his hands up the back of Louis’ t-shirt, cold enough that he hisses, and then down the back of his trackies, grabbing hard enough that the moans.

When Louis finally gets the last button on Harry’s shirt and is grunting impatiently, trying rip it down his arms, Harry pulls out of the kiss. “Fuck, Lou, I—”

“Yeah. Yeah, okay, come on,” Louis says, before he grabs him by the arm and pulls him out of the kitchen.

They make it to the bedroom without waking Charlie, - Harry checks on her swiftly, while Louis kicks the half-full suitcase off the bed - and tumble in-between the sheets together. They lose their clothes, wrestling around, biting and kissing and digging her nails in. At some point, Louis catches Harry between his thighs and locks him down and Harry whines into his neck and begins to rut on him. It’s not long before someone’s pulled out the bottle and Harry’s slicked himself up and hitched up Louis’ legs and is pushing into him with a grunt.

“ _Fuck_ ,” Louis gasps, when Harry’s balls slap against his arse and, for a brief second, he feels like he’s splitting apart.

Then Harry pulls out a bit and fucks in again, and his entire face just screws up, lips dropping slack around a loud moan, eyes squeezing shut, because it’s _so_ good.

“Fuck,” Louis says again, reaching up to smooth his hair back from his face, “fuck me, you can fuck me, come on.”

Harry doesn’t have to be told twice, pushing his face into Louis’ neck and hitching his arse up higher, fucking into him so hard and deep that he loses all control of himself and what he’s saying. He thinks he’s whining, gasping and begging, grabbing Harry’s arse with one hand to feel him pump himself in every time, and fisting his hair with the other, keeping him close, cheek-to-cheek.

At some point, he doesn’t know how long it’s been, Harry suddenly stops. He wrestles out of Louis’ headlock, looks down at him and then slaps a hand over his mouth.

Louis frowns up at him, panting hot against the palm of his hand.

“Shh,” Harry hisses, “be quiet for a second.”

His eyes roll upwards, landing somewhere around the headboard, and for a second he’s just hovering above Louis like that, brows drawn together, mouth in a tight line.

“Charlie?” he calls out, suddenly, and Louis jerks under his hand at that, because, well, if there _ever_ was a boner-killer, but Harry just presses the hand down harder.

And then Louis hears it. A little noise. A continuous little clapping noise.

“She’s slapping at the door,” Harry says, in case he hadn’t.

Louis just stares up at him, and, in the midst of his distraction, he accidentally clenches down hard.

“ _Shit_ —” Harry hisses, nostrils flaring out, dick twitching and hips bucking to fuck in deeper, making Louis curse too.

Then there’s a whimper on the other side of the door.

Harry drops his head with an exasperated sigh, and then pulls out. Louis lets his legs plop down and his arms too, over his head.

“I’m sorry,” Harry mutters, before he pushes off the bed and pulls some garment off the floor and up his legs, “I’ll be right back.”

When he opens the door, the kid is sniffling and whimpering and Louis feels a twist of guilt in his gut.

“Shh, it’s all right, darling, I was just in the other room,” Harry says softly, and it sounds like he’s picking her off the floor.

Before Louis has a chance to take his arms off his face and look at them, Harry’s closed the bedroom door behind him.

Louis lies in his own sweat for a while, lazily stroking his dick. When, five minutes later, he can still hear the soft hum of Harry’s voice in the other room, trying to talk Charlie back to sleep, he realises he isn’t in the mood for this anymore. He realises he has no clue what the fuck he’s doing, or what the fuck Harry’s doing here, where he’s been, what he wants, whether he even knows it himself.

He’s missed Harry so much the need to have him close as possible took over, but now he’s lost his erection and his arse is kind of sore. Now he realises, fucking each other doesn’t make a fucking difference. They’re still just as far from each other as they were fifteen minutes ago.

Harry seems to have come to the same conclusion when he finally walks back in. He doesn’t say anything to the fact that Louis’ put his pants and t-shirt back on, or that he scoots backwards when Harry comes to sit at the foot of the bed.

“We shouldn’t have done that,” Louis still says, maybe mostly to scold himself for being so weak, “we— that wasn’t, anything. That doesn’t mean that everything’s just all right, that was just—”   

“Stupid. Yeah,” Harry gives a soft smile, and his hand twitches like he wants to reach over and touch, but he controls himsef, “I shouldn’t have… I shouldn’t have jumped right into fucking you, I know I’ve got a shit-load of explaining to do, it was just—”

“The easy way out.”

Harry looks up. “Beyond my control,” he says, “I’ve just missed being in you so much. I— it’s like— your skin and your smell and your noise and your hole and your face and I can’t—”

“Yeah,” Louis says, because it isn’t like he doesn’t know, “yeah, I— you don’t have to explain. I get it,” he gives a little snort, eyes gliding over the uncapped bottle of lube lying between them on the mattress, “obviously.”

Harry gives a small chuckle. “Yeah.” He licks over his lips, face falling into serious folds again. It’s a while before he speaks again, and when he does his voice is steady, low and earnest; “I want to apologise to you, Lou.”

Louis swallows. “For what?”

“Everything,” he says, “but mainly, uhm… flipping out like I did.”

“I flipped out too.”

“I _left_ you.”

Louis sucks in a sharp breath at that. He presses his lips together, taking in the pained look on Harry’s face and doesn’t say anything.

“I felt—” Harry starts, but then cuts himself off, biting his lip, “do you even want to hear any of this?” he asks, “cause I— I can take Charlie and leave, it’s… I want to do anything you want. I want to explain what I’m feeling, but not if you feel like it’s too late. I don’t—”

“Why haven’t you answered any of my calls?” Louis cuts right through. Harry’s mouth snaps shut. “Or my messages? Harry, you dropped off the face of the fuckin’ earth and left me here, all alone, you left—”

“I didn’t think I did that,” Harry says, and it’s sharply enough to shut Louis up, but his expression is soft and sorry, “I— the first time I left, I left because I wasn’t over what you did with that other guy. I couldn’t get over it, and I tried, I really tried, but it wasn’t something I could control. I stayed cause I felt I owed it to you, but I needed some time without you to think. I was always going to come back. I might not’ve known it right at first, but I was,” he says, “but then I did come back, just one week later, and I found you with him. In _our_ home.”

Louis pushes up on his elbows. “Harry, I’ve told you nothing happened with him that night.”

“I know, but— just. Really. Honestly. If you were me, then, if you left for a week and came back and found me with the person I’d cheated on you with, _in our home_ , wouldn’t it seem to you like… How the hell was I not supposed to think you’d been seeing him continuously since the first time? When it took you less than a week, Louis? Can’t you see that that might’ve seemed a bit off to me?” He looks at Louis, as if waiting for a response, but Louis doesn’t say anything, so he goes on; “and the next thing I hear is that you’re planning to go away with him. What— just, _realistically_ , Louis— what am I supposed to make of that? Really?”

Louis swallows hard and cocks his head back against the headboard. “Yeah,” he says, on a long sigh, “yeah, I see your point.”

“So— so, right now, what I’m thinking is that you’ve just been with him non-stop since the last time I saw you. That’s the idea that forms in my head,” Harry says, hesitant before every next word, eyes trained on Louis’, constantly waiting for him to interrupt and tell him he’s wrong.

“You’re wrong,” Louis says. Harry schools his features well, but the immediate drop of his shoulders gives Louis some indication of exactly how relieved he is to hear it. “You’re wrong,” he repeats, “the morning you and I last saw each other, was the morning after the first time I’d seen him since Zayn’s party. I ran into him at a party Eleanor took me to and then I got pissed off my head and we snogged a bit and then he took me home and we cuddled. And then you came home the next morning. That’s it. That’s what you wouldn’t let me explain to you,” he sees Harry’s lips part because he wants to interject, so he continues before he can; “but I know it doesn’t matter either way. I let him into our home and it doesn’t matter either way, and this isn’t me apologising to you either. I’ve done that. I can’t do anything else. This is just me explaining.”

Harry nods, lip behind his teeth.

“And then, a few weeks ago, I got pissed again and Zayn stole my phone and left Eli - that’s his name - a few messages. And in the morning we ended up speaking some more. And I was lonely, I was missing you, I was missing the closeness. So I caved and I went and from then on, we were seeing each other.”

“Were you fucking?” Harry blurts.

He looks like he regrets it the second he’s said it, but Louis still tells him sharply; “you don’t get to ask me that.” Harry nods, but Louis goes on; “you don’t get to ask me that because you left, telling me I could do whatever the fuck I wanted to. In fact, I distinctly remember you telling me I could go suck every cock in London.”

A hurt little noise escapes Harry’s lips. Louis does his best job at concealing how much he struggles not to reach over and squeeze his hand right then.

“I was angry,” Harry says, “I’m so sorry, I was really angry, I was really shocked and hurt and just-  _fucking_ angry, I couldn’t—”

“Yeah,” Louis says, “I know you were and you know I’m the last person to tell anyone _anything_ about biting their tongue when they’re like that. You were angry and you said some shit that came out badly and I get that. I get that.” He swallows again, because his fucking throat keeps clogging up. “But that doesn’t excuse you disappearing for fucking weeks afterwards. I can’t count how many times I’ve called and texted. The only way I even fucking knew you weren’t dead in a ditch was Zayn telling me he’d spoken to you and you were up in Sheffield.”

Harry nods, lips pressed together so hard they’ve gone write. He’s fighting not to cry. Louis doesn’t let the need to wrap his sweet face up in his hands and kiss it better overtake him.

“I, uhm,” Harry manages to say after a while, “I didn’t think I was leaving you alone. In that way. In my head, you were with him. You were with him and I was, just— really hurt and missing you and missing Charlie and torn between— but _fuck_ , I hate that I hurt you. I hate it.”

“Yeah,” Louis says, because he knows that feeling.

“I went up to my mum first, and then to Sheffield whenever Marie offered to let me see Charlie. After a while, we got into an arrangement of me babysitting while she was at school or work. I rented a room in Sheffield and just stayed there. She was going through some tough stuff too, so I babysat a lot. I missed you every day, but I was caught up in Charlie and, well— part of me felt like we needed some time apart. That you needed it too.”

“Hm,” Louis says, and then he just can’t help himself; “Marie get round to giving you that blowjob she’d offered, then?”

Harry gives a bitter sort of chuckle. It’s quickly cancelled out by a big, sad frown and a hand, scooting across the sheets to reach for Louis’. Louis pulls his away and Harry drops his head, nodding at his lap like he deserved that.

“I am _so_ sorry for telling you that,” he says, “or at least— telling it to you like that. I’m sorry for using it to hurt you, I was just— so angry right then.”

“You’re not answering my question. Did she give you that blowjob or not?” Louis goes on, and his voice is shaky, weak, even as he wants to just be mean, make Harry feel some of what he felt in the past couple weeks, “s’only fair, since she offered it to you and all. You were a free man, why not, am I right?”

Harry shakes his head at him, mouth scrunching up in disgust, eyes welling up too. “Louis, I’d never do that.”

“You did once,” Louis says quickly and Harry flinches like he expected that, but it still hurt.

“Yeah, I know. Nearly three years ago I made the biggest mistake of my life and I fucked someone that wasn’t you. But since her, and before her, and right now, and for as long as I can possibly imagine, the _only_ person I want is you. I haven’t kissed anybody but you, and her that _one_ night, in the past eight years of my life. You are the _only_ person I ever want, Lou.”

“Don’t you think you could’ve told me?” Louis asks, and his voice hurts his throat when he speaks, but he continues, “don’t you think you could’ve told me you’d fucked up, right away, and I’d have found a way to forgive you? Because what hurts me most isn’t that you fucked someone else, I did that too and I know how little it can mean and how much you can regret it,” he says, and Harry nods along, eagerly, tears streaking his cheeks now, “but _two years_. Two years, Harry. I couldn’t even go two _weeks_ and— that just makes me wonder what kind of a person possibly could. What kind of person that makes you.”

“Yeah,” Harry breathes shakily, “I can tell you that I’m sorry and that if I could go back in time I’d change it in a heartbeat, but I’ve already said that and you can’t use it for anything. So the best way I can explain it to you is that I fucked her, and all it did was remind me how much the only person I ever want is you. And so, from then on, knowing with myself I’d never do it again, I decided to be the best man for you I could possibly be. Make up for it without ever telling you, and hurting you, and ruining us,” he says, “I’m not saying that’s right, I’m just saying that’s how I went two years without telling you. By telling myself I was doing the right thing, keeping you from getting hurt by a mistake that I knew was never _ever_ going to make again.”

Louis lets his head fall back against the headboard again, eyes fluttering closed. He parts his lips and lets a trembling breath leave them, then says what he’s thinking right then, and in general; “I’m really tired.”

Harry’s quiet for a second, like he hadn’t expected that, but then he claps his own thighs and says; “of course. Of course, yeah.”

He pushes off the bed and heads for the door, and a familiar pang of anxiety suddenly hits Louis.

“I— wait,” he sits up again, “you’re not leaving, are you?”

Harry turns. “Uhm, no, I was thinking I’d pull the fold-out mattress into the livingroom and sleep by Charlie. Unless you want us to go?”

“No!” Louis exclaims, “no, just— yeah, do that.”

He nods. Wavers in the door for a moment, studying Louis. “I love you,” he says, after a long while.

“I love you too, Harry,” Louis replies, because he’s too tired to lie.

Harry smiles, and this time doesn’t attempt to hide his relief. “Goodnight.”

“Goodnight.”

 

*

 

He wakes at the sound of his alarm going off, feeling empty and drained, and a little bit like his duvet’s suddenly put on fifty pounds of weight. When he sits up to stop the alarm and call in sick for work, and his stomach makes the sound of a disgruntled baby lion, he realises he hasn’t eaten anything since noon yesterday.

He calls his boss, who seems just on the verge of firing him right then and there, both of them being embarrassingly aware that Louis isn’t really _feeling cough cough bit under the weather today, sir, think it might be contagious sir, cough, sneeze, goodbye_ , then puts on a pair of pants, and a pair of trackies, too, once he remembers that there’s a kid in the flat. She’s sound asleep, when he carefully sneaks through the living-room, and anyway, Harry’s snoring loudly enough to drown out any noise Louis might’ve made. He makes himself two slices of toast with cheese, and sits in the window, eating.

No one wakes up and it’s too early to think anything of substance, especially considering he’s all out of coffee, so he decides to go back to bed again.

As he’s passing back through the livingroom, though, there’s movement. He jumps a bit in his skin, because he hadn’t expected to have to deal with anyone again for another couple hours, but it’s his own fault for not noticing the snoring having stopped.

Harry’s still on the floor-mattress, but now looking up at him. “You all right?” he rasps.

“Yeah,” Louis mutters, self-consciously wiping at the sides of his mouth for breadcrumbs, “sorry, did I wake you?”

“I don’t know. Probably,” Harry whispers, small grin pulling at the side of his mouth. “Doesn’t matter, I’ll fall right back asleep.”

Louis glances over at Charlie. The only part he can see of her is a head of curly hair and a chubby little arm, sticking out from under the blanket. He looks back at Harry. “Well. Don’t want to wake her. I’m going back to bed.”

Harry nods, but there’s a still a little line stuck between his brows.

“What?”

“You’re all right, yeah?” he asks, like he didn’t believe it the first time, and won’t when Louis tells him yes again either.

“Yes,” Louis says anyway, “go back to sleep. We’ll talk tomorrow.”

“It _is_ tomorro—”

“Shut up, you know what I meant.”

Harry giggles.

Louis feels a terrible sudden urge to jump across the floor and kiss him, touch him, hold him. Be close to him again.

Something must show on his face, or maybe Harry just feels it too, because he says right then; “I want to come in and, like… hold you.”

“Harry—”

“I’ve been wanting to all night, but I wasn’t sure I should.”

“Why are you telling me this?”

Harry chews on the side of his mouth. “I don’t know, I— just so you know, I guess. Not to make you say you want that too if- if you don’t, but just, like… so you know that if you did, that… that I want it too. I guess.”

Louis narrows his eyes at him. “You’re very tired.”

“Extraordinarily so.”

Louis laughs. Then he slaps a hand over his mouth, realising he could’ve woken Charlie. She doesn’t so much as stir. “Well.”

“What?”

“Just—” Louis shrugs a shoulder and turns before Harry has a chance to read him. He leaves the bedroom-door ajar and smiles to himself when he hears Harry’s footsteps behind him.

 

*

 

The second time he wakes that day is much more pleasant than the first. He’s wrapped up in strong arms, tangled together with smooth long legs and he’s got Harry’s nose nuzzled at the top bone in his spine, his chest pressed to his back and his lips, breathing in a familiar rhythm. He’s missed this so much it’s felt physical.

Still, after a while, he disentangles himself from Harry and decides to go find his cigarettes.

They didn’t continue what Charlie ended mid-way through last night, or even really snog. Harry pressed a few testing pecks to his neck and cheek and, when Louis didn’t respond, kissed him behind the ear and said goodnight again. Louis isn’t sure what he wanted last night, or what he wants right now, apart from his nicotine-fix.

He gathers they’ll talk some more later on.

As for now, he pads into the kitchen in his trackies again, opens the fridge just out of habit, closes it again and then attempts to walk over to the corner where he keeps his cigarettes and nearly trips himself.

“Fuck,” he blurts without thinking, when he looks down and finds a small person, having waddled straight inbetween his legs.

“Fuck,” she repeats, grinning up at him.

“No!” Louis exclaims, “don’t say that, that was— that was bad of me. Bad word. Okay? Bad word.”

She doesn’t seem to comprehend. She giggles for a bit, and then her entire face falls, and she starts to whimper.

Louis looks around the room for help, but there’s only his cigarette’s and himself. He looks back at the kid. “Are you hungry?”

“Yeah!”

Okay. Okay. He glances at the door, hoping Harry might come through it right that second, but he doesn’t. “Okay,” he sighs, “well. What do you like?” She just stares up at him. “Food? Yes? Food, what food do you like? Breakfast?”

She still doesn’t seem to comprehend, or maybe she’s just waiting for him to specify, so Louis resorts to visuals. He grabs a packet of toast and waves it in front of her face.

She claps her hands. “Yesss! Toze!”

“All right, then, toze it is.”

Charlie gets lifted up on the kitchen table so she can _yesss!_ and _no!_ and whimper in response to what Louis puts on her toast, and also not trip him again. She ends up with a nice slice with butter and jam.

“I’m Louis, by the way,” Louis tells her, as he decides to have a slice of toast himself, because smoking into a two-year-old’s face somehow doesn’t seem like a good idea. “Think I’ve introduced myself before, but I’m not sure you remember, so... Louis.”

“Louli!”

“Yes. Louli Tomlinson, that’s what they call me.”

He reaches a hand forward to shake hers, and she reciprocates by letting go of her toast, dropping it jam-first down on his foot and then shaking his thumb.

“Ace.”

He makes his own toast into hers instead and then has a plain slice out of the bag and hangs around with her, small-talking. It turns out that she’s two-year’s-old, refers to Harry as _Howie_  - whether that’s a pet-name or a mispronunciation she doesn’t seem interested in revealing - and finds it extremely hilarious to purposely throw her food jam-down onto feet and floors, more than once. When he asks where her mum is, she tells him that she’s coming home in five days and holds up four fingers, and when he asks again she does the same thing, but with three fingers instead.

“She’s not very good with numbers,” Louis notes, when Harry comes waddling into the kitchen, “or, at least not very good with how many fingers equate how many numbers.”

“Wha’? Hasn’t anyone ever told you that three means five in finger-language, babe?” Harry drawls.

He’s got his back turned to Louis, as he tries to get Charlie to allow him to wipe jam off the sides of her mouth, but if he hadn’t, he’d see how Louis stiffened at that. _Babe_. As if they’ve somehow made it back to _babe_  in the space of one night. _Babe_.

To make matters worse, of course, Charlie decides to scream-giggle; “bae!” in response. Three times.

Louis doesn’t miss the way the lines of Harry’s back tense up at that. He isn’t that stupid, then. He knows they’re not all right.

 

*

 

They plant Charlie in the lounge-chair with Harry’s huge headphones on and a kids-movie on his laptop.

“Marie’s on holiday,” Harry says, unprompted, as he plops down across from Louis on the couch, “with Liam.”

“Liam?”

“Yeah,” Harry looks his face over, as if checking to see whether the name genuinely doesn’t ring a bell or Louis’ just acting aloof, “her ex. Charlie’s ex-step dad. They’re back on.”

Louis pushes himself up straight, just out of pure chock. “The bloke who barged into the flat drunk?”

“Yeah.” Harry shrugs a shoulder. “He’s not— from what she’s told me, he’s not usually horrible. He’s— obviously I don’t know everything, but they have a very long backstory. There’s a lot of shit apart from the cheating that’s happened, and— you know, he sees Charlie as a daughter, so it’s been really rough on him lately.”

Louis nods, unsure of what to else to do with the information. He doesn’t say anything.

Harry sighs. “He hurt Marie really really bad and then she shut him off completely, like— not just from herself, but from Charlie too. So, he felt like he’d lost everything and he had no rights what so ever to demand to see Charlie ever again cause he wasn’t her biological dad. You can imagine how much he hated me when I came into the picture. Reckon he still dislikes me quite a bit.”

“Have you met him?”

“Yeah,” Harry says, “I mean— at first I thought it was a bit like… that he was just stalking her and going crazy on her, but eventually things sort of turned out to have a bit more to it than that. The main thing that drove him to go completely ballistic was that he was missing his kid. He was missing Charlie,” he glances over at her, and then back at his own hands, little smile coming over his face, “I can understand him.”

“Right.” Louis leans his head back against the armrest, thinking for a moment. “Marie offered you a blowjob. She came onto you. And now she’s back with him. That’s... confusing.”

“Yeah,” Harry says, like he’d expected that one to come up again right around now, “yeah. I mean— she was in a really shitty place the night she did that. She actually apologised to me the next time I saw her. In the end, I think everything was always about him. She hasn’t tried anything at all since. Mostly, I think she’s just a bit embarrassed.”

“Right.”

A loud gleeful giggle erupts from the armchair and they both look over to see Charlie clapping her hands at the screen. “Yesssss!” she says to her self, “get the bunny and do— yessssss!”

Louis can’t help a little laugh. When he looks back at Harry, he realises he’s being looked at. Smiled at. He doesn’t know what to do with it, so he cuts his gaze away and focuses on pushing his cuticles down with the nails he’s forgotten to cut.

After a few seconds, Harry finally looks away. “Anyway,” he says, “they’re on holiday for the rest of the week. Liam and Marie. And I’ve been up at her flat, babysitting Charlie. That’s why I had to take her with last night.”

“Okay.”

They’re both quiet for a moment, gazes trapped on their own hands. Then Harry breaks the silence; “can I ask you something? — And it isn’t meant to be accusatory in any way, it’s just curiosity, it’s just because I want to know what you’re really doing, or feeling, or thinking.”

Louis looks up. Harry’s already looking at him, brows a little furrowed. “What?”

“Why is there a half-full suitcase lying on the bedroom floor?” Oh. “I mean, I— I didn’t mean to look through things, Lou, but I stepped into it when I got up this morning and I just couldn’t help but think that, like— that maybe you _were_  actually planning to go with him. Your stripper,” he rambles, “I won’t be mad if you were, I just— I just want to know what’s going on in your head. Just tell me the truth, nothing’s going to make me want to walk away again unless it’s you asking me to do so.”

Louis drops his head fully back on the armrest. “Fucking hell,” he sighs, “no, I wasn’t— I wasn’t going to go with him. I wasn’t.”

“Okay.”

He squeezes his eyes shut for a moment. “I was just—” he begins, but then he stops.

Then he opens his eyes and looks across from him and realises he’s got everything he’s been walking around in a depressive haze wanting, missing so badly, for weeks on end, right here in front of him. He’s got Harry here and he’s willing to admit his wrongs and he’s apologised and he’s back, he’s Louis’, like he’s supposed to be. He hasn’t touched Marie. He doesn’t want to. He only wants Louis and Louis only wants him. They’ve had a bit of time apart and they’ll be all right now.

So he says; “I was just unpacking cause I’d stayed a week at Eleanor’s after you’d left. I, ehm— was planning to stay longer than that cause the flat seemed so big without you, but… she lives too far from work so it became too stressful and I came back. Never got round to unpacking fully, though. Think I needed a smoke and then forgot.”

Harry just looks at him for a moment, blank-faced. Then everything breaks into a grin. “Bloody hell, Lou. See, this is why you need me around.”

Louis joins in on the chuckle. “Yeah. I really do.”

 

*

 

They spend the day indoors, watching some telly and then talking a bit and then watching some more telly. Harry rolls Charlie up in the puffer jacket again, since he forgot her actual fucking jacket up in Sheffield, and takes her for a walk down to the park and then grocery shopping. Louis means to fix the flat up a bit in the meantime, but the only thing he gets round to is folding the floor-mattress back up and putting it away. Harry brings back pizza, which Charlie gets to extremely overhyped about that she ends up having a tantrum when her stomach is suddenly full enough to burst, but her mouth still wants more.

Eventually, she exhausts herself and falls asleep on the couch.

Harry cleans up and Louis takes a long shower, going over all the people he’ll have to explain himself to when he tells them he’s back with Harry again. Mainly Zayn. Fuck, Zayn’s going to think he’s the most pathetic piece of shit in the history of spineless weak-wills.

Then he steps out of the shower and into the bedroom and finds Harry in bed and reminds himself that Zayn doesn’t know what it’s like to love someone this much.

“Hey,” Harry says, eyes soft, but tired.

Louis slips under the covers and lets himself be pulled into Harry’s wide warm body and kissed. They snog for a while, lazily and without intent, hands wandering, just feeling all the places they’ve missed. When they’ve tired themselves out, and Louis lies his head down on Harry’s chest, and Harry runs his fingers through his hair, Louis can’t for the life of him remember why this isn’t exactly where he’s supposed to be.

“Thank you,” Harry hums into his hair, “thank you for letting me back home. Just— thank you, Lou.”

“Hm,” Louis grunts sleepily and pats his chest, “you’re welcome.”

For a while, it seems those are going to be the last words of the evening.

Then Harry makes a chuckly little snort-sound and says; “s’funny, I think this is the first time I’ve actually hung out with anyone apart from my mum in, like, weeks. I’ve missed the grown-up interaction, I have to say. Soon as you and I broke up, apart from Zayn calling to backhandedly tell me off, not a single one of our friends have contacted or called me back. Just goes to show how loveable you are, dunnit?”

It’s said on a bit of a chuckle. It isn’t meant to be anything terrible. But Louis doesn’t find it funny at all.

“That’s only cause they all knew me from childhood and only knew you through me. That’s only—”

“Louis, I know. I know that, babe, relax, it wasn’t meant like that. I don’t mind, I know what it’s like.”

But Louis can’t let it go. “What about Nick? You’ve spoken to him, haven’t you?”

“Yeah,” Harry says, “sure. But you know Nick, he has a shitload of other people to keep track of too. I don’t know any of them.”

Louis pushes halfway off his chest. “And why is that? They look like people you’d get on with. He posts a shitload of pictures of them online. They’re pretentious quirky dipshits like you.”

“Well, fuck you too,” Harry grins, but when Louis doesn’t so much as smile, he shrugs a shoulder and says; “I can’t be bothered. Too much work, too much time spent going out or going to weird locations to take Polaroids and shit.”

“You love that shit.”

“I love you more,” Harry says, “want to spend my time with you.”

“And what if I want to go out with my friends? Some nights? What then?”

“I’ll come with if they invite me like I’ve always done. I don’t care that I know they’ll choose you over me. I know that, they’re your childhood-mates,” Harry says, “and if not, I don’t mind staying at home and getting some writing done or just being in my own company. I’m quite content in my own company.”

He tries to pull Louis down to lie again, but Louis doesn’t budge. “Harry, you just said you’d missed grown-up interaction. That doesn’t sound like ‘content’ to me.”

Harry rolls his eyes. “Whatever. What does it matter?” he sighs, “I’ve got you and that’s always been enough for me. I don’t see the problem.”

Louis chews on his nails, jittery.

“Come oon,” Harry groans, “c’mere, I wanna sleep. We can talk about it in the morning, yeah?”

Louis still doesn’t say anything.

“Louis,” Harry says, a bit sharper, “lie back down, I don’t, like— just lie back down. Louis.” He sighs exasperatedly. “What’s with you all of a sudden?”

Louis swallows, and then says what he’s only just realised; “I love you, but I think I might have to go away for a while.”


	24. Chapter 24

**EIGHT MONTHS LATER**

After a long and tiring search for his idiotic generic black bloody suitcases, walking through the arrival gate and pinning down two familiar faces almost instantaneously is, just— fucking needed. He has to take a second, just to swallow and blink a few times, before he’s certain he won’t break out in tears, and then he picks up pace and marches right for them.

Eleanor hits him first, hard and with all her weight. “Daaaaaarling!” she squeals, arms swinging round his neck, “oh my god, oh my god, oh my god,” she exclaims, plastering wet kisses all over his face, “bloody hell, I’ve missed you.” She pulls back, just to punch him in the arm, “you fucking idiot, who goes on holiday for eight fucking months?”

Louis chuckles, rubbing at the sore spot. “Holiday and holiday... I’ve been working quite a bit.”

“Porked out quite a bit too,” Zayn says from the sideline, thumbs in his pockets, weight tipping back and forth on his feet.

“Oh, shut up and come here, you awkward sod,” Louis grins, throwing an arm around him.

They slap each other an adequate amount of times on the back, then call it quits on the hug and pull back.

“No, mate, you actually look good,” Zayn says, and it looks like it hurts to get through his teeth, “you look really, ehm— fuck, I’ve missed you.”

Louis laughs. “Missed you too, Zayn. — Not that I’ve had that much of a chance to, what with you Skyping me every other day.”

“Try every third week,” Zayn mutters, as he forces Louis to allow him and Eleanor to take all his luggage, “for someone who knew literally _no one_ in New York, you sure as fuck went out a lot.”

“Isn’t that how you _get_ to know people?”

Zayn shrugs a shoulder. “Don’t mean you can’t text me first every now and then.”

“I _did_ ,” Louis exclaims, “I _did_ , you’re impossible to satisfy, this is—”

“Anyways, _I_ love you, Louis,” Eleanor cuts in saccharinely, “no matter how much or how little you text me.”  

Zayn scoffs and begins to lead the way toward the exits.

“Did you even notice I was gone, really?” Louis asks.

“Sure I did,” Eleanor exclaims, “sure I did, I missed you all the time, darling. My life is nothing without you.”

He glances at her, eyes narrowing. “What’s going on?”

“What do you mean, I’m just happy to have you back, babe!” She looks at him like he’s crazy, but she’s a horrible actress and she knows it, so she drops it almost immediately. “Okay, fine, Idris is driving. He’s parked outside.”

Louis sighs. When Eleanor broke the news that she was actually kind of still sort of seeing Idris once in a while, two weeks ago, Louis didn’t mind it. He hasn’t met Idris a whole lot of times, but the guy seems nice enough. Well-meaning. That doesn’t mean Louis hadn’t hoped for a bit of one-on-two time with people he’s actually missed while being gone.

“Whyy?” he whines.

“He’s missed you like crazy,” Zayn replies, because apparently, he’s been listening in from where he’s paving the way through masses of sweaty vacationer’s for them, “he hasn’t stopped talking about you once in the past eight months.”

Eleanor snort-chuckles. “No, actually, I went on the piss last night and I’m still a bit drunk, so he offered to drive. — And don’t give me that look, it’s not my fault your flight came in at fucking _shit_ AM in the night.”

“It’s eight, Eleanor.”

“Yes, exactly, at least two hours too early for any sane person to be out of bed.”

“I’m a sane person and I’d be out of bed at that time,” Zayn says.

“No, you’re a _Zayn_ person, there’s an enormous difference.”

Louis laughs, and then steps outside, and then sees Eleanor’s car, parked right up against the pavement with a parking ticket on it. And then sees Idris behind the wheel, openmouthedly snoring.

“Jesus fucking christ, you _idiot_!” Eleanor hisses, yanking off the ticket and slapping at the window.

He wakes like from shock, and then smiles, and then sees Eleanor’s facial expression and stops smiling. “Sorry, babe, I fell asleep, I don’t understand,” he rambles, tumbling out of the car.

“You’re a fucking _imbecile_ , Idris, I don’t know why I put up with you.”

“Well, for one I’ve got a massive—”

“Quick! Load the boot before they give us another one,” Eleanor yells. “Fucking idiot… Think my hangover just started kicking in there.”

It doesn’t take long before she’s back in a good mood again, though, asking Louis question after question about New York, and work, and when exactly he’s starting uni, and the food on the plane and the temperature in the fucking luggage gate. In the end, he’s so tired of using his voice that he asks Zayn about his new boyfriend. Which is a mistake, _always_ a mistake. Ever since Zayn met Gil, exactly one month ago, he hasn’t been physically capable of talking about anything other than Gil for more than two minutes at a time. Or less than ten.

He goes on and on and on, mainly about how much Louis’ going to love him, and doesn’t stop before Idris literally yells; “shut the fuck up, mate!” and then asks, sweetly, “where am I going? I’ve literally been round this fuckin’ roundabout six times in the last five minutes.”

Eleanor and Zayn both turn to Louis.

And, the anxiety he thought he’d rid with all the wine he had on the plane, flares right back up.

“Let’s pop by a pub first, yeah?” Zayn suggests then, “they say alcohol’s the best cure for a hangover, El.”

“Yeah,” Louis exclaims, “yeah, yes, let’s do that. Yes.”

“Random pub it is,” Idris announces, making a sharp right-turn.

Eleanor begins to scold him again, and Zayn turns in his seat to give Louis a comforting little smile and squeeze his knee.

 

*

 

They end up at a pub Louis’ driven by before, but never been inside of. He knows they’re about ten minutes from home. He pushes the thought aside, ordering a strong pint and gulping down what feels like a third of it soon as he gets it. They’ve chosen a leather-seated booth in the corner of the pub, and Louis made the terrible mistake of slipping into his seat first, which means he’s now trapped in the middle, with Idris and Eleanor on either side of him.

They talk about Louis’ flight for a bit, how tired he must be, how sweaty and fat people were in J.F.K and how much shit Louis had to throw out or give away because he couldn’t fit it in his suitcases. “I swear I haven’t bought a single item of clothing for as long as I’ve been there,” he says, hand rested round his pint-glass, anxiety dulled a bit with how little there’s left in it, “I’m pretty certain the only logical explanation is that my suitcases shrank.”

“Sounds about right,” Eleanor says, before she inches out of the booth and asks if anyone wants something from the bar.

Nobody’s finished their first drink yet, or their food for that matter, but she insists on going up to get more chips and when Louis glances over the bardisk, he understands why; Hottie McBroadshoulder standing behind it. She nearly throws herself over the disk, saying something that makes him flash his perfect teeth at her and even look a bit flustered.

Louis glances at Idris. He’s ogling the last half of Louis’ burger. “You eatin’ that or...?”

“No, you have at it,” Louis mutters, pushing the plate at him.

“Sorry, lads, I’ve just got to take this,” Zayn says from the other side of Idris, “it’s Gil— wait, Lou, you wanna talk to him? I’ve told him so much about how fucking funny you are, don’t you want to say hi?”

Louis fakes a yawn. “I think I’ll pass today, mate, I’m not up to my usual standard. Too tired.”

“All right, well— be right back, then.”

He disappears into the restrooms, because apparently the conversation suddenly needs utmost privacy.

And Louis’ left alone with Idris.

“Fuckin’ hell, where’d the rest of that burger go?”

Idris eyes blow wide, almost fearful. “You _said_ you didn’t want it, you literally _just_ said—”

“I know, I know, chill out, it was all yours, mate,” Louis chuckles, “it was just… quick, is all. How’d you gob that whole thing down in one go?”

“Opened my mouth, pushed it in and swallowed.”

“Ah. Should’ve known.”

Idris goes to wipe ketchup off the side of his mouth, but somehow ends up applying more onto it instead. Louis doesn’t say anything. Perhaps Eleanor will bring him to a fashion blogger-event like that and they’ll just think it’s the new fashion. God, even his head is nervously rambling.

“You look out of it, mate.”

Louis coughs awkwardly. “What?”

“You,” Idris says, pointing a ketchuppy finger at him, “look out of it. Worried, like… worried, or… no, what’s that word?”

“Worried?”

“Yes. That. You look worried.”

Louis sighs, letting himself deflate into the backrest. “I’m not,” he lies, “I’m not,” he lies again, “I’m just knackered from the flight.”

Idris nods, fingers poking around in Zayn’s chips. Louis casts a glance over at Eleanor, hoping she’ll be on her way back soon, but she’s deeply entranced in watching Sexy McSelftanner talk about his abs.

“So, ehm…” Louis lazily begins, getting sick of the silence, “weather here’s actually not that different from New York these days.”

“Fuckin’ cold for summer,” Idris mutters, mouth full of Zayn’s chips. “S’a fuckin’ conspiracy or some shit, they don’t like us Brits cause they know they can’t fight us so they give us all this shit fuckin’ weather to try and take us down.”

Louis stares at him for a few seconds, but he doesn’t look up. “Right…”

“Why were you in New York for eight fuckin’ months anyway?” Idris asks, “went there once with my mum, but only for a week and thank fuck for that. Felt like a rat in a fuckin’ maze. Probably why they built it like that. To drive us mad.”

Louis chuckles, because his brain doesn’t want to comprehend that Idris actually means it. “Yeah, it’s— it’s not for everyone, I suppose.” There’s a moment of awkwardness where Louis isn’t sure whether he’s supposed to say something. Then he remembers that Idris actually asked him a question. “But I was there for a while because I actually quite liked it.”

“Impossible,” Idris grunts.

“Not entirely, no,” Louis replies, “they have theatres, amateur groups and loads of great plays. They have Broadway there, that’s a massive attraction too. Especially if you’re into that whole scene.”

“So, you worked on Broadway or what?”

Louis coughs. “Well, no, ehm— I spent half my savings whilst living in a hostel.”

Idris snorts. “Sounds like a brilliant trip.”

“And then I got chatting to a bloke who knew someone who hooked me up with a watering job. And then I met someone who knew someone who hooked me up with a little room to rent. Wasn’t cheap at all, considering the size of it, but the location was better than I could’ve ever hoped for.”

“Sounds shit.”

“Wasn’t, really. I joined an improv group and got to know loads of really cool people. I got a part in a small amateur production and became good friends with the director. She gave me the lead in her next play, which was actually reviewed in quite a few papers, don’t know if Eleanor told you.”

“Eleanor hasn’t told me shit.”

Louis sighs. “Well, anyway, it was massive. Well, not the play, it got terrible reviews, but you know what they say; all publicity is good publicity.”

“What, so, like, I go see your shitty play and I write in The New York Times that it’s the shittiest play I’ve ever seen and then Jennifer Lawrence calls you up and wants to suck your dick on screen, just cause you got someone to say something about ya? Pfft, get out of here.”

Louis stares at him, unblinkingly, fighting the urge to stab him in the eye with a fork. Or the brain, rather, because that wouldn’t make a bloody difference. Somehow, he manages to do neither and instead grits out; “your girlfriend is two seconds from pulling that guy up on the bar and shagging him in front of everyone.”

Idris glances over to where Eleanor’s now doing things with her straw that definitely don’t serve the purpose for which straws were intended.

And he laughs. “Yeah, we picked him out soon as we walked in here,” he says, “fit, in’he?”

“Well, yes, but— ‘picked him out’, what do you mean?”

“We’re gonna shag him.”

“You’re going to _shag_ him?”

Idris grins. “Yes,” he says, “share him.”

“What, like—”

“Like a threesome, stupid,” he exclaims, “jesus christ, mate, you’re lucky that you’re pretty. Not much going on up top, is there?”

Louis’ mouth shapes into an O.

Before he finds the words to respond, Idris gets up. “Anyway, thanks for the heads up, I better go seal the deal. Be back in a sec.”

And then Louis watches him fix his shirt and saunter up to Eleanor and Poorguy McDoesn’tknowwhathe’sinfor, baffled.

He doesn’t sit there too long, though, before Zayn arrives back, apologising, just for the sole purpose of getting to elaborate on why it took so long. Apparently, Gil took his cat to the vet because he found an inhumanely large shit in it’s litterbox, but the vet said nothing was wrong. The next day, Gil found another monstershit in the same box and couldn’t understand it. So he did some investigation and—

“Turns out, it was his flatmate all along.”

“His flatmate shat in the litterbox? _Twice_?”

“Yes.” Zayn chuckles. “Classic Max.”

“But... _why_?”

“As a joke,” Zayn says, like it’s the most obvious thing in the word, “what, don’t tell me you’ve never shat anywhere weird in the name of a prank.”

“I shat on someone’s dick once, but that certainly wasn’t a prank.”

Zayn chuckles. “Haven’t we all?”

“Life of a bottom boy. Isn’t it tragic?”

“It’s shitty, that’s for certain.”

Louis laughs, then clinks his glass to Zayn’s and downs the last of his beer in one go.

The alcohol’s helped his nerves tremendously, or so Louis tells himself, until Zayn goes ahead and brings him right back to anxiety-city with one simple question; “you spoken to H since you landed?”

Louis drops his head. Doesn’t even try to conceal how much he doesn’t want to be confronted with this, any of it, not yet. He’s been a nervous wreck all of last week, all through his flight, as much as he told himself the wine worked wonders, he’s been dreading coming home for one reason and one reason only; Harry. He’s coming home to Harry, or at least the flat they still technically co-own, and still both technically live in. He’s coming home to Harry and he hasn’t got the slightest idea what that means.

It’s too soon still, even after eight months, he isn’t ready, it’s been too long and not long enough at all. Mostly, he’s just really fucking nervous.

“You’re a fucking idiot, Louis,” Zayn says, when he’s been quiet for too long, “you can’t break up with someone and then go back to living with them like you’re fucking flatmates.”

“Sure I can, it’ll be fun, I’ll shit in his cat’s litterbox, it’ll _literally_ be all shits and giggles,” Louis rambles. His stomach’s in knots.

“Fuckin’ hell, Lou,” Zayn sighs, hand going round the back of Louis’ neck to give him a little rub, “tell you what, we’ll pop by the flat and I’ll run up and get whatever you need for now, and then we’ll go back to mine and you can stay till you find out what you wanna do. Doesn’t that sound better?”

Louis peeks up at him, from where he’s had his face buried in his own hands for a bit. “I don’t know,” he says, “I mean, I— I’ve kept in contact with him, over text and mail and stuff and— I mean, he’s expecting me to come. He knows my flight came in today, so… yeah.”

“So, what, you’re giving things another go now or…?”

Louis looks up at him again. “Honestly?”

“Honestly.”

“Honestly, I have no fucking idea what we are.”

 

* 

 

Idris ends up driving them back to Eleanor’s, not forgetting to boast about getting Bisexual McThreesome’s number, and then Zayn and Louis walk to Zayn’s and Zayn drives Louis home. They sit in the car for a long while after parking, chatting about pointless things at Louis’ request, just to stall. It takes him much longer than he’d ever admit to any of the people in his improv group, who taught him so much about letting go of inhibitions and not letting the opinions of other’s get to him and all of that shit, before he’s finally ready to get out of the car.

Zayn helps him take his luggage to the lift, and that’s as far as he goes.

“See you at the party, then,” he says, “all the lads are fucking buzzin’ to see you.”

“Still can’t believe you’re doing a welcome home-thing in my honour,” Louis says, and it’s true, but it’s also because he’s trying to stall again. He wants to stay down here, talking to Zayn, all through the day, and the night, and forever. He wants to stay right here, with his feet solidly planted in his spot, and never go up there and confront the person he nearly managed to push out of his mind for eight whole months. He’s afraid if he goes up there that he won’t feel the same as he once did, that they’ve lost it forever because he went away.

He’s afraid if he goes up there, that he’ll feel everything he always did when looking at Harry. He’s afraid he won’t know what to do with that now. He’s afraid Harry won’t want to.

“Hey,” Zayn says then, “worst case scenario things are shit and then you move out and you meet a load of great people at uni and you forget all about him.”

Louis nods, mostly to convince himself that it’s true. “Okay. Yeah, I- yeah, okay. Okay.”

Zayn smiles. “Say hi to him from me. Haven’t spoken to him in ages.”

“Oh. Do you want to come up with me—”

“No thanks, bye.”

And then Louis takes one, two, three deep breaths in and out, and steps into the lift.

He reaches his floor, feels a rush of nostalgia at the look of the welcome-mat, still right where he left it, and the feel of fitting his key into the hole and unlocking the door, like he used to do every evening after work. He takes a few steps into the flat, suddenly beginning to expect, hope and fear at the same time, that Harry isn’t home. Maybe he thought it was better not to be, maybe he’s left to stay with someone else while Louis gets settled back in, maybe he’ll call in a few days, just to discuss selling the flat, practicalities, because obviously, everything’s decided and done with at this point.

And then he steps a bit further in, and finds Harry, right there in his corner, headphones on, fingers tapping away on the laptop.

“Hi,” he says, and Harry can’t hear him over his sound-cancelling headphones, but he senses the movement out of the crook of his eye and looks up still.

He nearly kicks his laptop to the floor, eyes shooting up, headphones falling off. “Jesus!” he exclaims, “fucking hell, Jesus fucking _Christ_ , shit, _fuck_ —”

Louis gives a horribly breathy laugh. “Sorry, did I scare you?”

“Nobody’s walked into this flat without me letting them in first in eight fucking months,” Harry pants, as he tries to untangle himself from his mess of laptop-charger and headphone-chords, “Jesus Christ.” He finally manages to stand up straight, and look Louis in the eye. “Jesus Christ,” he says again.

“No,” Louis says quietly, “it’s just me.”

“Yeah.” Harry smiles. “Its just you.”

And— yeah. Okay.


	25. Chapter 25

They stand, still, staring, for what feels like ages. Louis’ hands are cramped around the handles of his suitcases, shoulder beginning to ache from the cross-over he’s got strapped over it. He doesn’t move, feels like he’s forgotten how to.

Harry’s hair is longer than it was when Louis left, but not long enough that he hasn’t had to have had it cut a couple times. The tips of it end right where his swallow-tattoo’s start now. His body looks different too, fitter. He’s been hitting the gym, working his core, maybe managed to switch to a low-fat diet while Louis’ been away. He looks gorgeous.

He looks down himself, self-conscious under Louis’ gaze. “Sorry, I— thought you weren’t coming till the evening,” he says, “let me just, uhm—” he makes a beeline for the bedroom, Louis’ eyes subconsciously gliding over his bum in his little blue pants. He’s been doing something there, too. Definitely.

He disappears behind the door, and Louis finally realises his shoulder’s about to fall out of it’s socket. He drops all his luggage to the floor and leaves it there to reacquaint himself with the livingroom he hasn’t seen in eight months.

It looks the same, at first glance, and yet it doesn’t.

There’s a huge painting above the dining-table now, picturing an apartment building, different little people doing different little things in each of the many windows. There are a few quirky quilted throw-pillows on the couch, there’s a small vinyl record player in Harry’s writing corner, on top of a small console table, full of records. Above it, from a little hook in the wall, hangs a Polaroid-camera in a brown leather case.

In the other corner of the room, on the floor beside the telly, stands a huge, three-story dollhouse. On the shelf beneath the coffee-table, lies three different types of children’s board games. On one of the shelves in the bookcase lies five different rocks, splattered in paint and glitter, and beside it a plaster-mold of a little hand and a little foot.

On the shelve above that, stand three different photo’s of Charlie.

“Sorry, I—” Harry stops talking when he sees what Louis’ looking at, “oh,” he says, stepping up behind him, “those were just, like, the best ones of her, I had to put them there. But— I mean, the only thing standing on that shelf was that ugly vase I bought at the flea-market, so… I thought it’d be okay.”

Louis nods.

“I thought you weren’t coming till the evening,” Harry says again, “I would’ve, like… I don’t know, been dressed or something.”

Louis bites back a small smile and turns around. Harry’s put on some sort of weird frilly pink button-down and flowy trousers. Louis attempts not to react, but he can’t control his facial muscles and Harry picks up on it, grinning sheepishly at himself.

“Yeah, I know, it’s, it’s a bit— but all my other shirts were in the wash.”

“You sure about that?” Louis teases, “I seem to remember you wanting to buy stuff like that in the past and me threatening to kick you out if you did.”

Harry chuckles. “It’s not that bad, is it?” he asks, swaying his shoulders a bit, “I like the, like… frills and stuff. They’re kind of cool. Like, frilly. And stuff.”

“You look nice, Harry,” Louis says, even as ‘nice’ feels like a fucking insult to how good he looks. “You look— pretty in pink.”

Harry drops his head, chuckling. It’s a little breathy, and the crooks of his mouth are tense, tight like Louis’ chest feels. They haven’t seen each other in eight months, haven’t heard each other’s voices in three, haven’t been in any sort of contact since Louis texted Harry his flight-times two weeks ago. He hasn’t properly thought of Harry in a long while, made a deal with himself when he left that he wouldn’t, but now, standing here in front of him, he feels it all. Everything he repressed. He hasn’t let himself think of Harry, but he’s not been capable of not missing him. It’s grown part of him, the quiet longing, so familiar that he doesn’t always notice it.

He notices now.

“And... you look happy.”

“I am,” Harry says, and the smile that comes with tells him it’s true, “I am, I— I’m, uhm, sorry, I’m a little bit in shock, I must’ve confused AM and PM, but, uhm— sorry, I didn’t have a chance to sort of… mentally prepare. Ehm, d’you, eh— d’you want anything? Cup of tea, something to eat or—”

“Tea’s good, thanks,” Louis says.

“Okay, I’ll just— I’ll just, then,” Harry rambles, spinning around on himself twice before he disappears behind the kitchen-door.

Louis plants himself in the couch with a long sigh and contemplates just falling asleep right here, right now.

He doesn’t quite manage to, before Harry’s back again, with a tray of tea and biscuits.

“I was going to buy, uhm— like, some new biscuits, but I didn’t know whether… I didn’t know, so, uhm— they might be a bit crumbly, but I think they’re all right,” he says nervously, clinking the tray down on the coffee-table and then wavering across from Louis for a bit, gaze flickering from the couch to the lounge-chair.

He ends up picking the lounge-chair, while Louis sips scolding hot tea and represses a small scream.

His lips feel numb when he lowers the cup and smacks them. “S’good,” he mutters, just to say something, “still good at that. Making tea. That’s— good.”

“Cheers,” Harry says, rubbing his hands up and down his thighs, “uhm.”

“So, New York was great,” Louis says, unprompted.

Harry’s eyes shoot up. “Oh! Yes, yeah, sorry, I— yeah. Yeah, how was it? New York?”

“Great.”

“Right. Right.” He coughs awkwardly. “Right.”

Louis slurps his tea again, slowly, while he tries to plan out how to keep the conversation going.

Then Harry says; “I watched your play.”

“What do you mean?” Louis chuckles. “You just flew to New York and—”

“No, I— on YouTube,” he says, “someone put it up there, and— film was quite shaky and dark, but I still recognized you. You were good.”

Louis drops his gaze into his tea, small smile tugging at the crooks of his mouth. “Didn’t think I’d even told you the name of it.”

“No, well—” Harry mutters, “wasn’t that hard to, like— just search your name and plays in New York and stuff. Your name was in the cast-list online and I found the play, and, yeah. Fuck, I sound like I’ve fucking stalked you for eight months. I swear I haven’t.”

Louis cough-laughs into his tea. “I’d be sad to hear it if you had,” he says with a grin, but he means it. The thought of Harry being here, all by himself, doing nothing but wait for Louis to come back, without even knowing whether that’d mean them getting back together or not, is just— well, saddening.

“No, I’m— I just wanted to see it. Cause it was cool. That you were in a play and stuff.”

“Yeah,” Louis agrees, “yeah, it was cool. Cool like that painting you’ve hung above the dining-table,” he adds, nodding over his shoulder.

“Oh,” Harry exclaims, like he’s been called out on a minor crime, “sorry, I— I don’t know if it’s your style, it probably isn’t, but… I don’t know, my friend made it for me and I really liked it, so…”

Louis looks back at the painting again. “No, no, I like it,” he says, and it sounds like he’s lying even though he isn’t, “no, sorry, I’m— I didn’t mean it like that. Sorry if it came off—”

“No no, it didn’t,” Harry says, eyes wide and fingers fidgety when Louis looks back at him, “it didn’t, I was just,  I don’t know. Obviously, we don’t know whether, uhm— I mean, if I end up moving out I’ll take it with me. Otherwise, it’ll just… stay, I guess.”

“Right,” Louis says, weakly.

He doesn’t know why it hits him as hard as it does, hearing Harry talk about moving apart. He left eight months ago, telling Harry he could do what he wanted because that’s what he needed to do too. He told Harry not to call or text unless it was something practical about the flat, or something serious, about his health. He told Harry that if Harry wanted to fuck other people, he shouldn’t hold himself back for Louis, and - even as it hurt like fucking hell to get through his teeth - that if he ended up meeting someone he liked, that’d be great for him and he should go for it. He never told Harry that they were over forever, because he didn’t feel like they were when he left, and still doesn’t right now, but he did tell Harry they were over for now.

That Harry’s gotten over him while he’s been gone, he really doesn’t have the right to feel sorry for himself about.

“I haven’t looked anywhere yet,” Harry goes on, “I don’t know whether you’ve started looking or…? What you’ve been thinking.”

Louis lies his head back on the backrest, suddenly feeling extraordinarily exhausted. “No, I haven’t started looking,” he says, “obviously, if you move I won’t stay here. Haven’t exactly got the money now that I’m jobless and studying. I’ve got to find something part-time, though.”

“Yeah. Right, yeah, uhm— I think the Starbucks round the corner’s looking for people. I mean, I’m not sure, but they always are, so they probably, ehm...” Harry trails off, then clears his throat and starts up again; “but anyway, I’ve got Charlie coming here this Monday, just so you’re prepared. She stays for a week at a time.”

“Yeah,” Louis says, “yeah, you said, I— that’s brilliant, by the way. That everything worked out as well as it did. I’m so happy for you,” he adds on, and hopes he doesn’t look so tired that it seems disingenuous, because it really isn’t.

Ever since Harry called him, for the first and last time since he went away, so high on life that he forgot he wasn’t supposed to do that anymore, and told him that Marie and Liam were moving down to Islington with Liam’s new job and that they’d settled upon a shared custody, one-week-at-a-time-agreement, Louis’ been happy for him. So happy for him. He didn’t sound it on the phone then, though, because he was struggling at the time, lonely and heart-broken, feeling so homesick in big scary New York that the sound of Harry’s voice immediately made him have to fight not to cry through the entire conversation.

That was a long time ago and Louis doesn’t feel like crying anymore. He feels like feeling happy for Harry.

“Thank you,” Harry says, eyes crinkling up, “it’s so incredible, she’s— she just learns all these new things every day and she’s _so_ smart, Louis, her little head, it’s quick as lightning, she—” he cuts himself off, suddenly, and Louis assumes it’s due to his expression. He doesn’t mean to come off disinterested, but he’s just so fucking tired. “Sorry,” Harry says, “are you tired?”

“Struggling to keep my eyelids up, yeah, sorry. Couldn’t sleep at all on the plane.”

Harry chuckles. “It’s all right, I mean— I get it.” He bites his lip for a moment, then says; “I’d tell you to go take the bed now, but I feel like I really owe it to you to change the sheets first.”

“Why, what’ve you done with them?” Louis grins, just before he realises it might not be a question of _what_ he’s done _with_ them, but rather _who_ he’s done _in_ them. And, however happy he does want to be for Harry, he doesn’t think there’ll ever be a time where the thought of Harry fucking someone else doesn’t sting.

Harry picks up on it, he can see. “I had a wank,” he blurts, “like, sorry, but I had a drunken wank the other night and wiped it off in the sheets. And, uhm, I’ve just slept on your side the past couple nights.”

“Oh,” Louis says, and doesn’t know whether to latch onto the part where Harry allowed a cum-stain to stay on the sheets for two days straight, or the image of Harry wanking, which inevitably pops into his mind’s eye and tugs at his dick a little, or the part where Harry still unthinkingly refers to one side of the bed as Louis’, which, well— tugs at his heart a little. “You fucking dog.”

Harry eyes widen a bit, and then he grins, faux shy-ish. “I was waiting for laundry daaaay.”

“Was it a nice wank?” Louis asks.

“Very nice, thanks,” Harry replies, getting up to go change the sheets, Louis presumes, “quite satisfying.”

“Glad to hear it.”

Harry’s cackling all the way to the bedroom and Louis’ enjoying the sound of it, and the look of his body as he walks away; the slightly hunched set of his shoulders, the stumbly way of his long legs, the slight swing of his arms. Fuck, he’s missed him so much.

 

*

 

 

Harry changes the sheets while Louis has a quick shower to wash off the flight, and then Harry says _sleep well_ and Louis says _you too_ , and then realises Harry isn’t going to sleep too and tries to take it back, but Harry’s halfway out of the door by then and therefore comes back in, asking _sorry, what?_ And Louis has to explain the entire thing and goes hot in the face and Harry gives a fake chuckle at it and then leaves and Louis feels like fucking strangling himself.

However, he falls asleep before he has a chance to.

When he wakes, it’s dark out, and when he checks his clock, he understands why. He’s slept through the entire day. It’s half past twelve AM and he’s wide awake. Brilliant. There’s really no one to scold but himself, because he didn’t set an alarm and he isn’t Harry’s responsibility. Not anymore, anyway.

He pads out of the bedroom, fully expecting Harry to be crumbled up on the couch, but he isn’t. He checks the loo, then the hall and the kitchen, but there’s no one home. There’s no message on his phone and no note on the fridge. All of Harry’s things are still here, save for one pair of his boots and the wine-coloured coat Louis hadn’t seen before, which hung out in the hall. He’s gone out, then.

It’s odd more than anything else, having Harry leave the flat without letting him know. Louis’ flatmates in New York did it all the time, because they weren’t his boyfriends and nobody needed to keep tabs on each other unless there was a specific reason to. But, they weren’t his ex-boyfriend’s either. And this is odd.

He can’t help but wonder where Harry’s gone, and more pressingly, who he’s with. He knows none of his own gang really speak to Harry anymore, so the only person he can think of is Nick. Or Charlie, of course, but the time of night kind of goes against that possibility.

But, he isn’t going to call Harry and ask. He’s got to get something to eat and he’s got a shitload of mails from the university with stuff he’s got to read up on before school-start.

He opens the fridge, then realises it’s all Harry’s food, feels bad and ends up going through his own luggage. He retrieves a large size Toblerone and two packets of minute-noodles. He fries the noodles in a bit of English sauce, because Harry probably won’t miss that little drop, and decides he’ll go for a glass of the cola he’s got standing in the fridge, because fuck it. Instead of looking through any of the mails from uni, he ends up deciding he’ll take advantage of the timezone-differences and Skype Sammy and Joe.

“Louiiiiiiiiiiiiiiis!” they scream into the microphone, soon as they pick up. They’re sitting in the flat, backs to the street-view window, and Louis instantly misses it. The dirty wooden floors, the permanent stench of weed, stuck deep in the couch-cushions, the constant hum of activity around him, if not in the flat then right outside his door. God, he had a great time there. “How is it across the pond? Miss us already?”

“Don’t flatter yourselves, I was just checking the reception,” Louis mutters.

“Fuck you too, Louis.”

“Fuckin’ wanker, eh,” Joe adds, in the horrible fake British accent they still haven’t gotten over mocking him with.

“Don’t you regret leaving us?” Sammy asks.

And, it’s a bit of a joke, or could easily be dismissed as one, but it does stop Louis in his tracks for a second. When he looks at them, chats to them, reminds himself of everything he had over there, everything he could’ve kept on having, he does think for a second _should I have just stayed? Would it have been better?_  But, after a moment or two, he ends up on a _no_. New York is lovely, full of fun and opportunity and brilliant, brilliant people. It’s the best extended vacation he’s ever been on. But, at the end of the day, it’s still that; a vacation.

“Nah,” he tells them, “England is home,” to which Joe makes a gagging-noise and Sammy looks falsely offended, “besides, couldn’t keep drinking that pathetic excuse you call tea over there.”

Sammy looks genuinely offended.

“You disgust me,” Joe says, before; “oh my god, by the way, did I tell you what Micky did on the way back from the airport? It was fucking _hilarious_.”

And so it goes on for a while.

Twenty minutes and quite a few different topics of conversation later, they land on something Louis’d been hoping they wouldn’t.

“Hey, how’d it go with your ex? Is he really still living there or is he staying somewhere else? Or are you or—”

“Give him a chance to fucking answer, Joe, he—”

“Yeah, he’s here,” Louis cuts in, because he might as well just rip the band-aid, “and I am too.”

They quiet.

“I mean, it’s— there’s no need to look so terrified, it’s fine, really. I mean, it’s been ages, we’ve both sort of… moved on. Obviously, it’s a little tense and strange, but there aren’t any hard feelings. Reckon we screamed and cried and talked everything out so thoroughly before I left that any animosity’s sort of… fizzled by now.”

“So, like, when you met him, you didn’t feel any kind of way? About things?”

“No,” Louis says, but that’s so clearly a lie that he quickly adds on; “I mean, of course, I’ll always feel something for him. He was my first and only big love. The only boyfriend I’ve ever lived with. I was with him for _eight_ years. I’ll always... love him.”

Of course, the last two words are the only ones they hear. “You still _love_ him?” Sammy exclaims, “last we talked you never said _that_?”

“Well, I—” was trying to convince myself it was true, to pre-soften the blow, lest Harry didn’t feel the same, “I don’t know. I don’t know. I do still love him, yeah, I— I mean, if he asked me today if I wanted to see about things, maybe go on a date or something, I’m not saying I’d definitely decline. I don’t know.”

They’re quiet. He feels like their expressions would be humiliatingly sceptic, if the screen weren’t so grainy that he can’t make them out.

Then Joe says; “well, anyway, I wanted to say that if you’re out on your ass all of a sudden, my cousin knows a couple in Islington who rent out their extra bedroom. His friend rents their room now, but he’s moving in with his girlfriend soon, so maybe you could swoop right in there. I’m not sure how much he pays a month, but I’m sure it’s less than the apartment you’re in now. Do you want his number?”

“Ehm,” Louis croaks out. It’s a little soon, even though it isn’t, really. It just feels a bit too real. Then again, it’s an offer he _literally_ can’t afford to say no to. He opens his mouth to respond, but right then, he hears the keys rustle in the front door. “Thanks for the offer, mate, sounds really good, I’ll write you about it!” Louis blurts, pretty much all in one sentence, no comma’s, and then he slams the laptop shut.

Harry enters slowly, like always, takes a million years just to unlace his boots. It’s not until he appears in the doorway that Louis realises he’s actually drunk. Or tipsy, at the very least.

He’s in all black, tight t-shirt and jeans showing off just how much he’s been hitting the gym. His hair’s down, looks like it’s been scrunched up after a shower, nice and wild around his pretty face, and his lips are that painful kind of dark-red they only get when he’s horny or drunk.

Louis takes a quick look down his scruffy, slept-in self and determines it to be the latter.

“Heey,” Harry drawls, with a slight slur, “didn’t know you’d be up.”

“Yeah, no, I— I woke.”

Harry nods. “I gathered.”

Louis nods too, and forces a small smile.

There’s a moment of awkward silence, which Louis thinks he’s the only one who picks up on, because Harry’s too drunk.

Then Harry says; “I was just at a birthday… thing, so. Yeah. I’m sorry, I’ve had a bit to drink.”

“It’s all right, Harry, don’t apologise to me,” Louis chuckles, “you’re a grown man.”

Harry chuckles too, mostly due to his drunkenness, Louis thinks. He stumbles off to the kitchen, comes back with a bottle of water and a banana, because even when he’s drunk he still knows how to take care of himself.

“You take the bed,” he drawls, plopping his bum down on the dining-table, “I’ll sleep on the couch.”

And, oh. Louis’d neglected to consider that problem for a moment. They can’t share a bed anymore, because they aren’t together anymore. Louis doesn’t even think he’d say yes if Harry suggested it. Not unless it was instantly followed up by a hot make-out-session to cancel out any awkward uncertainty.

But it wont be, Louis can tell. Harry’s drunk, but he’s not drunk enough to do something he wouldn’t do sober. He doesn’t want to share a bed and that’s pretty fucking fair.

“I’ll take the couch,” Louis says, “really, I don’t mind. Seriously, I’ve just slept, like, fourteen hours. I’ll probably just lie and watch telly most of the night.”

Harry chews on his lip for a moment, then sighs. “Okay,” he says, “you’re sure you don’t mind?”

“I’m sure, Harry.”

Harry nods, then eats half his banana in one mouthful, gulps down half the contents of his waterbottle, then eats the rest of the banana and gets off the table. He goes back to the kitchen, then comes back, murmurs _goodnight_ and heads off to the bedroom. Louis can’t help but check to see what his bum looks like in those inhumanely tight jeans he’s wearing, and just as he does, Harry turns halfway round and begins to say; “oh, and if…” then trails off, when he sees Louis’ eyes flick quickly upwards. A smile that’s somehow both demure and smug spreads on his lips, and he speaks through it, in his low slurry drawl; “if you want to eat anything, you can. From the fridge.”

Louis nods, while his face goes horribly hot. “Thank you, that’s— thanks.”

“Don’t worry ‘bout it,” Harry says, stupid smile still stuck all over his face, “sleep well, whenever you get to.”


	26. Chapter 26

All of Friday, Harry spends grumbling at his laptop. Something about _editor wants this part gone, but if I do that then this entire other thing is going to have to get rewritten too and then- fuck_ and smiling gratefully whenever Louis brings him a cup of tea or a sandwich because he’s forgotten to eat. Louis takes advantage of the ready-writey atmosphere in the livingroom, for once, and reads up on a text for his art history-class, which turns out to be incredibly interesting, and he ends up reading far further in the text than what’s demanded.

By the time he finally stops for a moment to rub at his eyes and look at the time, he realises he’s got to shower and he’s got to shower now. The welcome home-party/thing that Niall and Jennie informed Louis a little over a month ago that they’d be hosting in his honour, starts around eight, but he’s been told not to arrive before nine, because _arriving before everyone else at your own party would just be fuckin’ sad, mate_ and somehow he’s _still_ running late _._

“Which one should I go with?” he asks, when he’s out of the shower, with a towel round his waist, and torn between a plain white button-down and a diagonally striped blue and grey one, which really isn’t his style, but Niall and Jennie gave it to him last Christmas, so.

Harry looks up from his laptop, then blinks like he’s forgotten to do so in hours. “Uhm,” he says, eyes not-so-subtly gliding up and down Louis’ half-naked body, “I don’t like the striped one.”

“No?”

“I mean, no, I like it, I do, but… I don’t feel like it’s you.”

Louis smiles. “No,” he says, “you’re right.”

“Besides, you look really hot in white, so.”

Louis grins. “Aw, that’s nice of you to say,” he says, as his insides flutter a bit, and Harry scratches at his own ear and looks down, grinning too, “what are you wearing?”

Harry’s gaze snaps up, brows furrowing a little. “Louis, I—”

“Oh.” Fuck. “Shit, you’re not— fuck. I’m sorry.”

“No no, it’s all right, really, don’t- God, I don’t want you to feel bad, it’s— it’s fine, they’re your friends.”

But Louis can’t bear the thought of that. “No, that’s got to have been a mistake, Harry, and even if it isn’t, I’m sure they wouldn’t mind, let me just give them a call—”

“No, really, you don’t have to,” Harry cuts through, eyes gone wider, “seriously, I haven’t spoken to them in ages. Besides, even if they wanted to invite me, I still think they wouldn’t have done it cause they thought it’d be awkward for you.”

“Why would it be awkward for me?”

“Louis,” Harry says, and his voice is lower suddenly, calm in a way Louis doesn’t like, “we’re not together anymore. It’s not normal.”

It feels a bit like a slap in the face, hearing Harry say it out loud. He knows it shouldn’t anymore, but it does, because Louis still wants him so badly. “Okay,” he says, “well, yeah, I— but I don’t find it awkward. I mean, I- I don’t find it awkward if you want to come. I’d love for you to come. We can still be friends, can’t we?”

“Yeah,” Harry says, but everything about his expression says  _no_. “But I think you’ll be better off just having a good time with your gang, Lou. Besides, uhm… I’ve actually got a few friends of my own coming over tonight, so.”

“Oh,” Louis says, “oh, okay. Oh, okay, yeah, well, that’s— that good, then.”

Harry gives a closed-mouthed little smile that doesn’t really reach the eyes.

Louis mimics it. “Well,” he says, “I better go get ready.”

“Yeah.”

He spends two minutes shimmying into a pair of tight black jeans, buttoning up his shirt and rolling his sleeves up past his elbows, then ten getting his hair right and an additional three, looking at himself in the mirror, wondering whether Harry finds him as attractive as he used to.

When he steps out of the bedroom, he’s come to terms with the pathetic fact that he’s mostly been making himself look good so that Harry would like what he saw when he came through here.

“Well. I’ll be going, then,” he says, when Harry doesn’t immediately look up.

Harry lifts his head, eyes doing a quick up-and-down scan of him. He smiles. “Have a good time.”

Then he turns back to his laptop.

Well. Louis doesn’t know what he’d expected. He knows it’s stupid to feel disappointed about not getting a little compliment, and vain too, but it wasn’t really about boosting his own ego. It was just about getting an insight into what Harry thinks of him these days. Whether he still thinks Louis looks as hot in white, or whether he was disappointed, when faced with today’s reality.

But, well. He doesn’t rely on Harry to make sure his day doesn’t go to total shit anymore. He’s found out over the past eight months, that he’s actually fully capable of feeling happy and funny and smart and _fuckable_ , without needing Harry to remind him that he is.

It would’ve been nice, though. If he had.

 

*

 

Regardless, he’s forgotten the little mishap within minutes of stepping into his party. All of his old gang is there, even Oli and Nina, and Luke and Ken, who’ve all driven down from Doncaster just to join. Niall and Jennie have moved furniture just to create space for dancing, borrowed a huge surround sound-system and even hung up a big banner with the words **WELCOME HOME LOUISA**  - the last letter having been crossed over with a fat red sharpie - on it.

He meets Zayn’s Gil - a big hairy thirty-nine year old bear and not a tight little twink, as it turns out - and tells stories about New York until he gets so sick of his own voice that he almost suggests karaoke. He catches up with everyone - Oli and Nina are trying for a baby and Jennie got that promotion she was hoping for, Stan finally managed to fix that broken door-handle at his and Emma’s flat and Emma gave herself a buzzcut on a dare and regretted so hard she didn’t go to work for a week.

He gets drunk. He gets really quite very drunken. He has really a great very night.

In the small hours, Gil, who’s apparently also a recovered alcoholic, acts the designated driver and drops Oli and Nina off at their hotel, then Zayn at his flat because he’s got work in the morning and Zayn doesn’t let him leave bed if they’ve slept together, and then Louis, lastly.

“You’re all right, Gil,” Louis slurs out, “you’ve got my blessing, go marry the fuck outta Zayn.”

“Thanks, mate,” Gil chuckles.

Louis salutes him, then stumbles to his building and spends ages getting the number-combination for the door right. He checks himself in the mirror in the lift, smooths out the crinkles in his shirt and tries not to look so fucking goofy. His lips are stained with red-wine and his fringe won’t do what he tells it to do no matter how many times he tells it to do so.

But he thinks he looks all right.

He’s left his fucking key inside the flat. The door’s locked when he tries to open it, and he can hear music coming from inside. He straightens himself up once more, then buzzes the door.

Harry opens. He’s wearing the same trackies and t-shirt as he was when Louis left, but there’s something different about him, the wideness of his smile and the darkness of his eyes. “Lou-eeeh,” he sings, and Louis realises what. He’s drunk too.

“Harreeeh,” Louis sings back, mocking him.

Harry laughs, so unexpectedly loud that it jerks a violent, slightly frightened laugh out of Louis too.

“What’s going on out there?” a woman yells from inside the flat.

“Oh,” Harry says, stumbling backwards a little, “it’s just a few friends,” he tells Louis, “it’s just Louis!” he tells the friends.

“Just Louis,” Louis snorts offendedly, tumbling inside, nearly stepping on Harry’s feet.

“No, just,” Harry slurs, reaching forward to fix the collar on Louis’ shirt, and then pet his cheek for good measure, “sz’such a nice shirt on you,” he says, “I didn’t- I didn’t say earlier, but- but you look really pretty,” he pets Louis’ cheek again and Louis grins, “always really pretty, Lou.”

Louis drops his gaze, shaking his head at Harry as he attempts to toe off his trainers without tripping himself. “You’re drunk.”

“You’re drunk too,” Harry says, “we’ve got red wine. Loads of red wine. You want some red wine?”

“I’ve had a lot already.”

“Never enough,” Harry replies, and then disappears into the flat.

Louis follows lazily, and finds five people on the livingroom-carpet, slouched around the coffee-table, which is covered in more or less empty wine-bottles, and different vinyl records. Nick’s one of the people, rested back against the couch, and Tony’s another, rested back against Nick. There’s a red-haired woman Louis hasn’t seen before, sitting cross-legged on the floor and plinging along to the record that’s playing, on a ukulele. There’s another woman, blonde and wearing what looks like a home-knitted poncho, and a last guy, drinking wine out of the bottle and slurring so much nobody seems able to understand a word he says.

“Hello,” Louis says, and feels like he should feel more uncomfortable, but is too drunk to, “you look like you’re having fun.”

“Join the fun!” the blonde girl exclaims, “more the merrier.”

Harry comes half-running out of the kitchen right then. “This is Louis,” he yells, slapping a hand onto the small of Louis’ back, “he lives here, so. And Louis, that’s Sophia, Tommy and Kate.”

“Louis!” the ukulele-girl says, “any requests?”

“Ehm… Soul Sister?” Louis says, because he can’t come up with anything else.

He fears for a moment that she won’t know it because it’s not indie or cool enough, but then her face breaks into huge beam and says; “that’s actually one of the first songs I ever learned to play on this!” and starts to pling away.

“Hey,” Harry says, handing Louis a wine-glass, “got this for you.”

“Oh. Thanks,” Louis says, and his cheek stays hot from Harry’s breath for a few seconds after he’s walked away.

Louis finds a spot between Harry and the ukulele-girl and has a lot of fun attempting to master the tiny violin, but fucking up terribly. He chats to Nick and Tony for a bit, and they’re more than happy to tell Louis just how much Harry’s broadened his horizons since he left. It’s not in any bad way, though, and most of all they just seem happy that Harry’s happy too. Louis can get on board with that. They don’t ask about the living situation or plans for the future, either, which Louis’ grateful for. They ask about New York a bit, and uni, and seem genuinely interested in hearing about it.

Apart from the music-talk and slurry _deeptalks_ , Louis understands most of what goes on around him, or at least as much as everybody else.

When the last guest has left and Louis’ so drunk and tired he can’t hardly stand, he and Harry tumble into bed together. It’s not a discussion, or a decision, it just sort of happens. They don’t touch much, aside from a bum-slap here and a shoulder-brush there, and the last thing Louis hears himself slur out that evening is “you know, you know, I was, I was really surprised you hadn’t, like, painted the walls, like… fuckin’ canary yellow or summat while I’d been gone.”

To which Harry slurs back; “what like, Marie’sz old flat? Fuck, that was the ugliest fuckin’ colour I’ve ever szeen on a wall in my life.”

 

*

  

They spend Saturday wrapped up in duvets on the couch, watching telly and nursing their hangover’s. They order in a huge load of Chinese food, and later on Louis pops down to the corner-shop and gets them sweets and crisps. They don’t talk all that much, at least not about anything of substance, and somehow that’s incredibly nice; just kicking each other’s shins and wrestling over the remote and slowly re-finding that natural flow of banter that Louis fell in love with.

At nighttime, though, when they’re both struggling to keep their eyes open, Harry drawls; “rock, paper, scissors.”

“Wha’?”

“Rock, paper, scissors,” he repeats, “winner takes the bed. Loser sleeps here.”

“Right,” Louis says, and hopes his face doesn’t give him away. They were quite drunk when they ended up sharing a bed last night. Of course it didn’t mean anything. He’d be lying if he said some stupid little part of him hadn’t hoped it did. “Okay,” he says, averting Harry’s gaze, “best of three, then.”

 

*

 

The next morning, when Louis comes padding out of the bedroom that he earned his right to last night, Harry is on the phone. He’s sitting on the couch, wrapped up in his duvet still, but the telly is on, muted, and his laptop stands open on the coffee-table. He smiles at Louis when he walks through, and Louis pretends to be checking his texts while he listens in on the conversation.

Most of it, he can’t figure out, but he does make sense of the last words Harry says before he hangs up; “I’ll be there in ten.”

Louis almost asks where ‘there’ is, out of genuine curiosity and nothing else, but then stifles himself, in case it should come out like something it isn’t. It really isn’t.

But maybe Harry’s a bit of a mind-reader. Maybe he just doesn’t overthink things like Louis does. Either way, he says then; “I’m going over to Tommy’s place for a bit,” and adds; “Tommy from the other night” when Louis doesn’t react.

Louis does remember Tommy. He can’t remember exactly how goodlooking or non-goodlooking Tommy was, blame the booze, but he does remember this feeling in his stomach. This terrible, terrible little green-eyed thing, gnawing at his insides. He hides it with a throat-clearing and a false smile, and says; “cool” and then hurries off to the kitchen.

After Harry’s left, and Louis’ had two bowls of cereal and a shower, he pulls on some clothes and makes a very long grocery-list. He’s pretty much been eating out of Harry’s pocket since he came home and it’s felt like shit, like taking advantage of his kindness, or politeness, and now it’s time to pay him back. Anything that can be bought, will be bought.

Harry took the car when he left, which Louis only realises when he’s standing in the parking cellar. He ends up going shopping anyway, and stealing a grocery-cart from Tesco, hurrying home with the grocery-bags, then running back to Tesco with a guilty conscience and leaving the cart where he took it. When he comes home, the front door is open, and there are voices inside the flat. Harry’s, and another man’s.

“Thank you so much, mate,” Harry’s saying, just as Louis steps into the livingroom.

He and Tommy are walking out of the bedroom.

“Oh, hi, Lou, ” Harry says, “you remember Tommy, yeah?”

“Yeah,” Louis says, reaching a hand out for the bloke. Not particulary goodlooking, actually. Not horrible either. Hm.

Tommy shakes his hand and smiles. “Nice to meet you again. Anyway, I better get going or Helen’s gonna kill me,” he says, “see you later, H.”

Harry insists on walking Tommy out, and in the meantime Louis slips into the bedroom.

He immediately finds what they were doing in here. In the corner of the room, where nothing used to stand, except for a floor-lamp which has been moved into the other corner, now stands a small wooden bed. It only looks about big enough to fit a dog, or a kid.

“S’all right, innit?” Harry says, startling Louis as he walks into the room. “Tommy and his wife let me have it. It’s their son’s old one, they had it standing in the attic. What do you think?”

A kid, then. Obviously. “Nice, yeah,” Louis says, “for Charlie?”

“No, this other kid I had just after you left,” Harry says.

Louis’ lips fall apart with a click.

“Fuck,” Harry exclaims, eyes widening at himself, “that was a complete joke. Shit, sorry, that wasn’t funny. That really wasn’t, _shit_ —”

Louis shuts him up by laughing. “Jesus, calm down,” he says, slapping Harry over the arm, “if we can’t laugh about it, then what the fuck else can we do?”

“Hm,” Harry says, but he still looks sort of uncertain. “I’m sorry, though. That wasn’t funny.”

“Joke wasn’t, no, but that’s just cause you aren’t funny in general. Nothing to do with the topic.”

Finally, Harry’s face eases into a bit of a grin. “Heeey,” he drawls, “that’s not true and you know it.”

“Well, prove it, then,” Louis says, crossing his arms over his chest, “say something funny.”

“Knock, knock,” Harry replies.

Louis groans.

“Knock, _knock_ ,” Harry insists.

“All right, okay, who’s there?”

“Etch.”

“Etch who?”

“Bless you,” Harry says.

It takes a second for Louis to get it. When he does, he leaves the room, for the sake of his own integrity.

 

* 

 

When they’ve gotten over Harry’s tragic attempt at humour, many hours later, they decide to make dinner together. Meaning, Louis chops three carrots up and Harry does everything else. They eat in front of the telly because Harry’s apparently been following Survivor without him this past year and it’s on tonight. Afterwards, something else comes on, but they end up chatting all the way through it, and the next show, and the next after that. They catch up on almost everything they can, but still don’t talk about ‘them’ as an entity, or their current situation, and Louis’ pretty certain they’ve made a silent agreement not to. Not tonight.

At some point, Louis goes for a piss and then comes back to find Harry, sprawled out on the couch, long as he is.

“Heey,” he says, kneeing at Harry’s thighs, “that’s my seat.”

Harry groans, stretching so his joints crack audibly. “I’m too lazy to sit up,” he moans, and just as Louis’ about to tell him _well you better_ , he says; “just— c’mere” and pats the space beside himself.

And, Louis can’t really bring himself to say no to that. “Okay,” he says quietly, and lies down by Harry on his side.

It’s a little stiff at first, and Louis can hear both their breathing’s go embarrassingly fast as they lie there, not really touching, not really watching the telly they’re both staring at. After a bit, though, Harry’s arm comes to rest around Louis’ stomach and Louis relaxes back into his wide warm body, hooks his ankle over Harry’s when Harry links a leg over his hip. It’s so, so lovely, having him like this again. It’s so, so much, after all this time, that his skin is thrumming, spot behind his ear where Harry’s mouth almost-but-not-quite touches almost electric.

A thriller comes on, and it looks good, and Louis tries to follow, he really does, but he just can’t concentrate. He can’t forget about his body, feels like a teenager again, hypersensitive to a hand gracing the bare skin where his t-shirts crept up his belly. He wants Harry so much that he can’t get himself to make a move, inhibited by the nagging fear that Harry just might not want him back.

But, little by little, an innocent hand on exposed skin turns to tentative fingers, crawling up under Louis’ t-shirt. A mouth almost touching turns to lips, lightly brushing. A safe, warm body to lie back against turns to a hard twitching pressure, further down.

And, after a bit, Louis just can’t help being a dick. “The movie that exciting?”  

Harry lets out a shaky chuckle. It sounds like he’s been holding his breath. “I’m sorry, I can’t help it,” he says, trying to shift backwards, but there’s no leverage, because Louis’ pressed himself too close against him, “it’ll go down, just- fuck, sorry.”

“S’all right, don’t—” Louis’ voice cracks, throat clicking embarrassingly, “don’t apologise.”

Harry clears his own throat in sympathy, and then goes quiet.

They lie and stare at the telly for a bit longer, but if Louis were watching the least bit before, he isn’t at all now. His skin’s on fucking fire.

He shifts backwards, just a little bit, just a small enough move that he can pass it off as unintentional, and Harry’s dick jerks against his bum in response. He bites his lip, steadying himself, and then does it again, less subtle, and again, until Harry’s hips snap forward to meet him. Louis slides a hand down to squeeze his own dick through his trackies, and grinds back again. Harry’s hand slips out from under Louis’ shirt and down to his hip, grabbing on before he thrusts forward again, and again.

They fall into a humpy rhythm, both losing their inhibitions, panting shamelessly.

“I hate you,” Harry says, voice low and rough against the nape of Louis’ neck, sending shivers down his spine, “fuck, I’ve— you make it so fucking hard.”

“Don’t need to tell me that,” Louis snorts, and in turn, Harry bites down on his shoulder.

Louis wants to get his dick out, wants to jerk himself, wants Harry to do it for him, but Harry’s faster than him, grabbing hold of Louis’ wrist and tugging it backwards, down between them.

“Touch me,” he grunts, “come on, turn around and touch me.”

“Bossy,” Louis muses, rolling around and pulling Harry’s dick out of his boxers.

Harry doesn’t reciprocate the smile. He’s watching at Louis, almost angry-looking, nostrils flared, mouth red and wet and panting, open. “Suck it,” he says, fucking up into Louis’ hand, “please, come on, put it in your mouth, Lou.”

“Yeah,” Louis says, but doesn’t move quite yet, “yeah, I will, don’t worry, but—  what’s the rush?”

Harry swallows thickly. His pupils are so dilated his eyes look black. “I’m gonna come in a second,” he grits out, “wanna come inside you, but I can’t fuck you, I— I’m too close already.”

“Wow,” Louis breathes, touching a hand to Harry’s painfully red-flushed cheek. It’s feverishly hot. “Bloody hell, you—”

“ _Louis_ —”

“Yeah, okay, yeah.” Louis dips down then, quickly, and Harry fucks the head at him soon as he can, pre-come smearing Louis’ cheek, lips, nose, before he manages to suck it into his mouth. He doesn’t even think he does more than close his lips around it before Harry’s spurting hotly up his tongue. He keeps coming and coming, hand clutched in the back of Louis’ hair, holding him there until it’s seeping out the sides of Louis’ mouth and he’s spluttering, choking on it.

When he finally lets up and Louis pops off, coughing and crying and gasping for air, Louis doesn’t even have it in him to tell him off for being too rough. He looks so wrecked himself. He pulls Louis up, almost immediately, licks his own come off the sides of Louis’ mouth and kisses him, gets a hand into his pants and jerks him, fast, until he’s coming too.

They slip out of the kiss, come and saliva sliding from it, and just keep panting.

“Fuckin’ hell,” Harry breaks the silence with, minutes later, “forgot how good it felt to have my dick in your mouth.”

Louis slaps sweaty a hand onto his chest, chuckling breathily. “Forgot how romantic you always were with your words.”

Harry’s heart’s still galloping right under where Louis’ hand’s landed, chest lifting and falling rapidly, and there’s a drop of sweat, running from his neck down to his collarbone. Louis leans in and licks it off, at which Harry sucks in a sharp breath.

“Let’s go to bed,” Louis says without thinking, and then quickly adds; “I mean, if— if you want to share.”

Harry smiles drowsily down at him. “Sure,” he drawls, “least I could offer you after that spraying.”


	27. Chapter 27

When Louis wakes the following morning, he’s alone in bed. When he throws a hand out into the sheets, Harry’s side is still warm. When he takes a second to listen to the sounds around him, he hears the shower running.

When Harry steps into the bedroom, five minutes later, with a towel round his waist, he says; “change the sheets, would you?”

“Well, goodmorning to you too,” Louis snorts.

Harry tilts his head, spreading a wide smile across his face. “Goodmorning,” he sing-songs saccharinely. Then he drops the smile like a hot potatoe. “Now please change the sheets. I don’t want them smelling cummy when Charlie gets here.”

“God,” Louis groans, and kicks a foot out to hit Harry’s bum as he passes.

Harry doesn’t say anything to it, doesn’t even chuckle or flip Louis off, just proceeds to open the windows and say; “and remember not to swear when she comes. She refuses to memorize Tony’s name, but still hasn’t forgotten the _one_ time I said ‘fuck’ in front of her, like, six months ago.”

“She’s met Nick and Tony?”

Harry turns.

“Louis,” he says, and looks a little tired, irritated even, “you’ve been gone for four months short of a year. I haven’t been on fucking standby in the meantime. Things happen.”

“Oh,” Louis says, a little embarrassed with himself, “yeah, I know, I wasn’t— I just asked out of curiosity. Sorry.”

Harry sighs, clutching the bridge of his nose. Then he lifts his head and shakes it, “no, _I’m_ sorry. I’m a little bit— I didn’t sleep very well last night. I’ve not been sleeping well for a few nights, actually.”

“Why?”

Harry throws his hands out, sighing exasperatedly. “Why do you think, Louis? What’s changed in the past couple days?”

Right. Louis drops his gaze, nodding. “I’m sorry if I’ve caused internal turmoil, coming home. I mean, I— I don’t even know. I don’t even know, really. Anything, right now.”

It’s a moment before Harry says anything. When he does, it’s just a sullen little, “no.”

“I’m sorry if I took advantage of you last night,” Louis blurts, because he suddenly realises that last night might not have meant quite the same to Harry as it did him. Hell, he doesn’t even know what the fuck it meant to him, at least not in terms of the future. “I mean, I— obviously, you’ve got your crotch up against someone’s bum, boner’s happen, it’s not something you control. And when I- I don’t know, I get it if it was just, like… whatever. To you.”

“No, it was really lovely, Lou,” Harry says, and his voice his soft, his eyes sorry. He crosses the floor soundlessly, calm but fast, and then he’s sitting at the side of the bed. “You were so lovely, Lou, you’re— but obviously, it wasn’t planned and… I don’t know. I honestly— I’ve just got to get some laundry done so Charlie has her nightgown and I need to go to the store because we’ve run out of the only cereal she eats and I wanted to hoover before she came too, but I have to pick her up from daycare and I don’t want it to be too late, so I’m just—”

Louis shuts him up by grabbing his face and kissing him.

“Okay,” he says, chuckling at Harry’s startled expression when he pulls back, “okay. We don’t have to talk about it. No pressure. Okay?”

Harry nods, face still clutched between Louis’ hands. “Okay.”

“Okay.”

 

*

 

When Harry goes to the shops to get cereal and other necessities, Louis decides to air out everywhere and hoover the floors. He mops them too, just for good measure, swipes surfaces, scrubs the toilet a bit and even remembers to actually do the one thing Harry asked of him; change the cummy sheets.

Harry arrives back and slips on the fresh-mopped floor, first thing. Louis hears it while he’s in the shower, a loud thump and then a frustrated groan.

“You all right?” he asks, running from the bathroom, naked, dripping. It’s something of a miracle that he doesn’t slip too.

Harry’s on the floor, on his bum, a Tesco-bag beside him, apples rolling out of it. “Fucking hell,” he’s groaning, attempting to get up, but slipping again, and again, “stupid fucking shit, _fuck_ , cunt—”

“Let me help you,” Louis tries, reaching a hand out for him.

Harry whacks it away, clasps at the wall instead and, after a bit of a rather awkward struggle, manages to haul himself up.

“God, my _back_ ,” he groans, as Louis stuffs apples back into the grocery-bag. “Landed straight on it, fuck that hurt…”

He sits down on the couch while Louis puts the groceries away, but he’s up again when Louis comes back to him.

“What are you doing? Let me give you a backrub or something,” Louis exclaims, following him back out into the hall.

But Harry’s already half-way out of the door again. “I’m running late,” he says, waving Louis off, “nothing worse than getting picked up last from daycare. Got to be relatively early. And I’m already relatively late, so…”

Louis sighs, resting back against the wall. “I’m sorry,” he says again.

“No,” Harry mutters, “thanks for, ehm— mopping. It’s nice- really nice, Lou, _I’m_ sorry.”

“I’ll give you a backrub later on.”

“I’ll be fine,” Harry says, and then he’s out of the door again. Louis stands around for a moment, wavering, unsure of what to do with himself.

 

*

 

When Harry arrives back with Charlie, Louis’ sitting on the couch, trying to watch telly, ripping a piece of kitchen-roll paper to tiny shreds. He’s nervous, suddenly, more than he thought he’d be. About seeing Charlie again. About what she’ll think of him. About whether he’ll be able to make her laugh, or feel safe, or if she’ll take one look at him and peg him ‘bad’ or ‘scary’ or ‘no good for my daddy’. About the detrimental consequences it’ll have on his and Harry’s (rocky and somewhat nonexistent) relationship if she does the latter.

“Helloooo,” he calls out, over-cheerily, when the front door opens and boots topple inside. He flicks off the telly, jumps up and thank fuck the floors have dried by now. He’s in the hall in a second, with a big strained smile on his face, a tight pit of anxiety in his gut.

“Helloo,” Harry says, low, but chirpy. He’s on the floor again, but not from having fallen this time. He’s unlacing Charlie’s boots. “Charlie, can you say hello to Louis?” he asks, nodding at her.

She turns her head then, looks up at Louis with her huge hazel eyes and studies him, red mouth dropping slack. She’s changed a ton since he last saw her. He’s certain he’d still recognize her anywhere, but that’s mostly because she looks so ridiculously much like Harry, even more so now. Her nose is a bit bigger, a bit wider, her mouth as well, and her eyes bulge out just a little, like Harry’s do. Her hair’s much longer too, tips of it reaching her shoulders and more wavy than curly now. Just like Harry’s.

“Hello, Louis!” she says, and then she giggles, and Harry does too, and _fuck_ , they look alike.

“Hello, Charlie,” Louis says, a little breathy, and he can feel Harry’s eyes on him too now, watching him interact with her. He doesn’t think he’s ever felt this nervous, conversing with a three-year-old. “How are you?”

“Good, what do you doing? Do you do panticks now?”

Harry laughs. “It’s a bit of a tradition we have,” he explains, “I make pancakes after I pick her up. Just on the first day. She loves them.”

“Panticks! And sugar, mrhrmmmm!” she growls.

Louis laughs. “ _Mrhm_ , indeed,” he agrees, “Harry makes the best pancakes, doesn’t he?”

“Yesss! Lotsss of sugar!” Charlie says, kicking her boots off soon as they’re unlaced and then stumbling to get up to stand and run into the flat.

Harry stumbles after her. “Look in the dollhouse, darling, there’s something you haven’t seen before.”

She’s already speeding across the floors to get to it, tripping herself twice, but getting right up again. Louis and Harry watch her look through it, humming nonsensically to herself until suddenly, she finds something that stops her in her tracks. She picks it out of there, stares at it for a few seconds, and then turns around and beams up at Harry. “Dog!” she exclaims, holding the little figure up, “they gotta dog, daddy!”

“Yeah, they did, Charlie, they got a Golden Retriever,” Harry says, “d’you like it?”

She inspects it for a moment, then nods. “Yesss,” she says, “yess, and— yess. Goldet Tetriver, hhm…” she turns back to the dollhouse, putting the dog back in there and starts to rearrange stuff.

Harry watches her fondly, and Louis does too, for a bit.

“She calls you ‘daddy’ now,” he notes.

“Yeah,” Harry says, not taking his eyes off of her, still smiling like he doesn’t even know he’s doing it, “I think she likes you.”

Louis chuckles. “You’ve determined that? Within what, four seconds of conversation?”

“Yeah,” Harry replies, like the question wasn’t jokey, “she’s pretty clear about it when she doesn’t like people, right off the bat. If they’re, I don’t know, ugly or nasty looking, I guess. She likes a pretty face. Can’t even blame her for it, really, I mean she’s a kid, she does what she does. But we’re working on it, obviously.”

“So, what you’re saying is you think I have a pretty face?”

Harry looks at him and smiles, softly. “That’d be a bit of an understatement.”

 

*

 

They eat pancakes at the table, and Charlie talks about daycare, and her friends, and _panticks_ , and her mum, and Liam, and _panticks_ and _more sugar, more sugar on it, daddy_ , and then whimpers a bit when Harry cuts off the sugar-supply. And then she has another _pantick_ and forgets about it. When they’re done eating, Harry takes the plates out and Louis stays at the table with Charlie, chatting to her. He gets to know her favourite colour, her exact age in years and months and weeks, her favourite food ( _panticks_ , surprisingly enough), and her favourite animal.

“Lions,” she says, “cause I have— wait. No no no no, wait. You— _wait_.” She slaps the table, then grunts and groans, getting down from her chair, and hurries across the room and out into the hall. She comes back, grunting still, hauling the big pink overnight-back she came with over to Louis. She unzips it, rummages through for a while, muttering to herself again, and then finally pulls out a stuffed animal lion and holds it up toward Louis, Lion King-style. “Simba,” she says, “cause of Lion Keg.”

“Oh, wow, that’s smart,” Louis says, “can I hold him?”

She narrows her eyes at him for a second, deliberating whether she can trust him with the responsibility. “Yes okay,” she ends up on, “only fast.”

“Only fast,” Louis promises, and takes the lion. She watches intently as he holds it, and when he realises she’s counting seconds on her fingers, he can’t help a little laugh.

Harry comes out of the kitchen right then. “Having fun?”

“Yesss,” Charlie says, then rips the lion out of Louis’ hands again, “did you like?” she asks him.

“Yes,” he replies, firmly, because he can tell it matters a lot to her, “he’s very soft.”

She presses her lips together and nods, brushing Simba’s head. “Yes.”

“Did you let Louis hold Simba?” Harry asks her.

“Yes,” she says, “only fast.”

“Of course, of course.”

She nods once more, in conclusion, then pads off towards her dollhouse again, dragging Simba along by the paw.

“She definitely likes you,” Harry says, nudging Louis’ side, “she doesn’t let people touch that thing unless she likes them.”

“I like her too,” Louis says, turning his face into Harry’s shoulder, “and I like you. Do you like me?”

“If you go and make tea off the water I just boiled, then yes, I like you a little,” Harry says, giving Louis’ hair a ruffle before he walks away.

 

*

 

In the evening, when they’ve put a Disney-movie on for Charlie, and she’s sitting on the loungechair, rolled up in her duvet, Louis shifts up behind Harry. “Let me give you that backrub I promised, yeah?”

“Uhm,” Harry glances over at Charlie, like he fears he’s neglecting her just by accepting something for himself, then sighs and says; “yeah, all right. Thank you.”

They’re quiet while Louis massages, watching the movie, and when he’s done, Louis just links an arm around Harry’s shoulders and presses a kiss to the back of his hair. “Just lie here,” he says, “just lie back on me, it’s fine.”

But Harry’s body’s gone rigid, and it doesn’t stop being so. He looks over at Charlie, and Charlie looks over at him, and then Harry suddenly jumps up like he’s been stung in the bum by a bee and walks off, muttering something about needing the loo.

Louis and Charlie exchange befuddled looks and turn back to the telly.

 

*

 

Louis isn’t sure what to make of it. He doesn’t even ask when Harry comes back out from the bedroom later on, having put Charlie down, can’t quite bring himself to.

He’s lying on the couch, fucking around on his laptop, pretending to be busy. When Harry comes to sit, he pulls his legs up, making room. At first, Harry doesn’t notice, or at least doesn’t comment, but when he’s been sitting for a bit, just staring at a turned-off television-screen, he does slide a hand across the empty couch-cushion between them and touches it to Louis’ ankle.

“Yeah?” Louis asks, and cringes at the weirdly high way his voice comes out, “what’s up?”

“Nothing’s up,” Harry says, eyes narrowing, lookin him over, “nothing’s up, I was just— I don’t know. Nothing.” He pulls the hand back.

Louis nods, turns back to his laptop. He isn’t even reading whatever it is that he’s reading.

“It’s just because I’m not sure about you,” Harry says, all of a sudden.

That’s how it feels anyway. Completely out of the blue. Like pulling the rug from under him, a little bit. “What do you mean?” Louis croaks out.

“Close the laptop,” Harry says, “can you just—”

“Yeah, okay,” he mutters, putting it away on awfully jittery hands, “okay. What do you mean? What’s going on?”

Harry sighs. “I don’t want to give Charlie the wrong idea,” he says, “or I— I don’t even want to give her the right idea, yet, or in a long while, I guess.”

“I don’t follow.”

He looks at Louis again, brows furrowed. “I don’t want her to think you and I are together.”

“Okay,” Louis says, stung.

Harry teeths at his bottom lip. “Because we aren’t, are we?”

“No.”

“Because you left for eight months. And I moved on. If we got a bit horny last night, we got a bit horny last night. That doesn’t take away— that doesn’t change where we stand.”

Louis nods. He left for eight months and he doesn’t regret, not one bit, but he hates that he’s ruined his chances. He hates that something he needed to do meant losing Harry. He’d hoped, maybe even  _thought_ , in a moment like the one last night, that it wouldn’t. That they’d find their way back to each other, sooner rather than later. He can see now that that was naive.

“I had to move on,” Harry says, “if I hadn’t, I’d not have been able to do right by Charlie. I’d not have been able to do right by myself.”

“No,” Louis breathes. “Me neither.”

Harry licks over his lips, slowly. “What are you thinking? What’s going through your mind?”

 _I miss you. I want you. I still love you and I don’t think I ever won’t. I still want you, but I don’t want to feel like I need you just to breathe like I used to. I don’t want to be half a person. I never want to feel so small again_.

“I don’t know,” is what he says, “I don’t know, I—”

“Yeah,” Harry cuts through, like he’s just gotten an answer he didn’t want, but expected nonetheless, “yeah, I know, me neither.” He straightens up, looks at the telly-screen, the walls, the floor, wipes a hand over his mouth and shakes head and looks back at Louis. Says; “listen, I’ve been thinking, these last couple days. I’m going to move out.”

Louis blinks. “Oh.”

“I— no matter what, no matter… I don’t fucking know, but- regardless, I’m going to find another place. I want to find a place where I can give Charlie her own bedroom, when she’s here. It’ll probably be smaller, all in all, but I don’t want to sleep on the couch anymore and I don’t want anyone else to either. People should sleep in a bed, in their bedroom. I want her to have her own little space where she feels like she’s home, I don’t want her to feel like she’s visiting when she’s with me.”

“No,” Louis clears his throat, shakes his head, scratches at the inside of his wrist, “no, I- I understand. That sounds— yeah. I get it. Definitely. I think that sounds right.” But Harry keeps looking at him like he’s afraid he’s going to burst out crying, so he goes on; “anyway, my mate knows someone who can hook me up with a room to rent nearby. I don’t need more than that. Long as I have my own room, I’ll be all right.”

“Yeah,” Harry says, sitting back, “yeah, you’ll be all right, Lou. We’ll be all right.”

Louis nods, looking down at his own hands. They feel cold, slack in his lap, and he isn’t really tired, but he lies and says he is anyway, because he can feel Harry looking at him, constantly, and it’s driving him crazy.

“Okay,” Harry says, getting up, “sleep well, then,” he moves two step toward the bedroom door, then turns and asks; “you want to come sleep in there with me?”

But there’s a point where it’s too much, Louis thinks, a point he used to willfully ignore. He doesn’t want to be the version of himself that sacrifices everything, even his own mental state, just to spend one more night in Harry’s arms. If it’s only going to hurt him more later on, then that’s not fair on his future self, that’s no good. Even if he does want it so, so much right now, in this moment, looking at Harry.

“No, I think I’ll sleep here,” he says in the end, “probably better, too, if you don’t want to confuse Charlie.”

Harry blinks, like he’s just realising that part of it. “Yeah. Right. Of course, yeah,” he exclaims, “yeah, okay, well. Yeah. Goodnight, then.”

“Goodnight, Harry.”


	28. Chapter 28

Louis spends a few days with friends after that. He goes with Eleanor and Idris to a fancy dinner - functioning as Idris’ social babysitter while Eleanor networks -, spends an entire day playing video-games with Stan, has lunch at the pub with Niall and goes out gay clubbing with Zayn and Gil. Once he’s already there, he finds out he’s been lured into a double blind-date with one of Gil’s friends, Anthony. Who is nice, really, and would’ve been total dating material if he hadn’t been forty fucking five. He looks all right, though, definitely fuckable, but Louis still ends up alone in the lift at the end of the night. He just wasn’t up for it.

In New York, he spent the first two months completely celibate, not as much a conscious choice as a side-effect of being utterly and completely heartbroken. Once things began to clear up a bit on that front, he decided, very consciously, to fuck all of the city. Might as well properly whore out for once in my life, he’d told himself when he downloaded Grindr and hurt his back twisting in the mirror trying to get a good angle on his bum.

It didn’t take long for him to realise, though, or rather remember, that he just isn’t wired for one night-stands.

He had a few anyway, because he certainly isn’t wired for celibacy either, and they were fine, but shitty compared to anything with Harry still. Then, one day, all of a sudden, standing in his stairway, he got chatting to Mick from 40C. Five minutes later, and many months after that, they were fucking. There weren’t ever really any feelings involved, at least not any that couldn’t be attributed solely to the smooth tunes streaming from Mick’s surround-sound system or the post-coitalsnuggles they engaged in every now and then. Whatever it is that triggers something more in Louis, it wasn’t there with Mick. Which was probably why it ended like it started; quick and easy.

As opposed to this, Louis thinks, stepping into the flat, trying to stay quiet, but knocking his drunk self into the console-table first thing and then dropping his key-chain and phone to the floor. He doesn’t have to worry about Charlie, because Marie picked her up yesterday, Friday afternoon, to take her to her gran’s birthday party, but he still doesn’t want to wake Harry either.

After the moving out-talk, things were tense and disgustingly fake-polite between them for a few days. Then something happened, Louis thinks it was an incident with Charlie, in which he made her laugh so hard she screamed and fell over and Louis ended up in fits too. Harry walked in, gave up on trying to understand what’d happened, and then ended up on the floor with them, laughing harder than Louis’ heard him do in fucking— ages.

When Charlie left, Louis feared they might get tense again, that the only reason things had seemed all right was that she was there as a bit of a barrier; a perfectly valid excuse not to look each other in the eye or, god forbid it, talk. But, earlier today, before Louis went out to meet with Gayn and the forty fucking five-year old, things were fine. More than fine. They ate breakfast at the table together, chatted about whatever, and it was so fucking nice - just chatting about whatever again, not even having to think or to try.

So, Louis doesn’t want to risk pissing him off. They were doing all right now.

“Hello?” he whispers anyway, tip-toing into the livingroom.

Harry looks up from where he’s sitting, in his writing-corner, face lit up by his laptop-screen. “Hey,” he whispers back teasingly, “are you drunk?”

“Little bit,” Louis says, swaying his way to the couch before he collapses back on it.

“How was clubbing with Zayn and Gil?” Harry asks, and Louis can hear the grin in his voice.

“Fine,” he says, looking up anyway, and reciprocating the wide smile he finds, “fine. They set me up with a very nice gentleman.”

“Oh,” Harry raises his brows, nodding, “I see. Where is this gentleman?”

“On his way home, I presume. He drove me home and walked me to the doorstep, then pecked me on the cheek and said goodnight.”

“That _is_ a very nice gentleman.”

Louis chuckles. “Yeah,” he sighs, “we got on all right, but I don’t— I’m no good for the casual shit. I need to at least be sober, the first time, so I know how they like it. Then again, I’m no better than anyone else, in New York I had the most vile, drunken hook-ups, I tell you. Although, this one guy was actually quite—”  

“ _Louis_.” Harry’s voice doesn’t sound familiar, sounds odd and sharp suddenly. Louis looks up again. “Seriously,” Harry says, face stern, but hands fidgety, scratching at the top of his laptop, “what the _fuck_ makes you think I want to know how you’ve been fucked by other men?”

And— yeah. Yeah, wow, shit. Fuck, he feels like such a dick. “God, sorry,” he exclaims, “sorry, shit— fuck, Haz, I’m kind of drunk, I think I just let my mouth run without thinking there.”

Harry nods, but his smile is gone for good. “It’s all right,” he mutters, cracking his knuckles and then picking at them, “it’s just, you know, I thought we’d— I mean, obviously we both know we’ve not been bloody monks for eight months straight, but— I don’t tell you anything, so- so, I don’t need to know yours either.”

And, wow, this conversation’s terribly sobering. Louis clears his throat, and glances at the remote, then back at Harry, then has a wild brain-fuck and blurts out; “but how many have you? Since me?”

Harry’s eyes blow wide. “You did not just ask me that.”

“No,” Louis agrees, thinking better of it, “no, no, I- sorry. Sorry, it was just… yeah. I don’t know. Curiosity, I suppose. I’m drunk.”

Harry quirks a brow, picking at his nails for a moment. “I mean, I…” he begins hesitantly, “I’ll answer it honestly if you want me to. But you can’t get pissed off at your own reaction afterwards.”

Louis bites his lip. He doesn’t know whether he wants to know, isn’t even sure whether he did when he asked. And yet, some part of him, which he hopes isn’t entirely alcohol-induced, wants to test his own mental state. Wants to see whether he’s changed at all since he left, or whether hearing Harry talk about doing something he’s done too, takes him right back to where he was almost a year ago. Small. Weak. Fragile.

It’s playing with fire, yes, but maybe he’s strong enough now, not to feel like he’s dying just because he gets a little burnt. “I won’t,” he says anyway, “you can tell me. Tell me if you want. I’ll tell you mine too, if you change your mind about knowing.”

Harry nods, then gives a long, dragged-out “uhm…”

“You don’t have to tell me if you don’t want to, Harry, I have no right to ask you about this, it’s—”

“No, no, I will. I’ll tell you, so you know,” Harry cuts through, and looks Louis right in the eye, “I don’t want to be someone who shy’s away from confrontation, I don’t want to keep secrets ever again, from you or anyone. I want to be honest as much as I possibly can, because— well, you know. You know I still hate myself for fucking around and lying.”

“Harry—”

“Yeah, sorry, I know that wasn’t what we were talking about, I just wanted to say that— that, like, it’s something I’ve spent a lot of time thinking about. That I never want to ever make someone feel like that again, I never want to be such a coward.” Louis opens his mouth to say something, anything just to shut him up, because he doesn’t want to talk about this thing anymore, not right now, and this is stupid, this is all stupid and dumb and it hurts, but then Harry says; “I didn’t fuck anyone for, like, five months. After you left.”

“Oh,” Louis says, “not even—”

“Nope, not even anything at all. Nothing.” Harry looks away, digs a fingernail into the heel of his hand and then chuckles, dryly, at himself. “Then one night, I saw this fucking picture of you. Out with your friends. There was a guy who had his arm around you. I hadn’t even been stalking you, at least not for a long while, I’d been working on myself and being a father, getting out of the house more. Meeting loads of new people and working out and stuff,” he says, “but then I saw that picture and I just— I don’t know, I didn’t even know whether he was just a friend or anything, but I realised that, like, he could be. He could be fucking you, or the guy beside him could, all the guys in that bloody picture could be fucking you and I didn’t have a say in it at all. It hit me and it hurt like a motherfucker.”

Louis nods. “If it’s any consolation, I wasn’t pictured with anyone I’d fucked in New York.”

“Hm,” Harry says, shrugging a shoulder like it doesn’t matter anymore, “anyway, after that, I think I fucked, like… six people. In all.”

“Oh.” Louis isn’t sure what he thinks of it. It’s a number. It’s less than ten, he supposes. But more than four, which is the amount Louis slept with after Harry. It’s a number. “Women or—”

“Women, mostly, yeah,” Harry says, “two men. I didn’t really think about it. The sex. I mean, the gender.”

“Okay.” Louis’ looking at his own lap, chewing on his thumb-nail. It seems the more details he gets, the worse it hurts. It seems he still can’t help himself from asking for more. “Was it... were they ever… more than just— that?”

He swallows, looking up. Harry licks over his lips, then sucks the bottom one in, brows furrowed.

“Go on,” Louis insists, “I’m not pissed off.”

Harry frees his bottom lip. “There was one, yeah,” he says, “one that was more than just once.”

“Anyone I know?”

Harry shakes his head. “Someone I met when I was out. It was only meant to be, like a— a one-time thing, but she called me again on a night I was home alone, so I thought why the hell not? We went out for two or three weeks. Can’t remember how much we fucked. A lot, I think. More than we talked.”

“Right,” Louis says, quietly. It’s as though someone’s stuck their big grubby hands into his gut and just grabbed onto everything they could and started wrenching it, like a wet flannel. And yet, it doesn’t reach up to his chest. It doesn’t overtake his whole body. It doesn’t make him cry, or even want to. It hurts, but it’s also good, knowing that he doesn’t fall apart entirely. That he’s able to hear this, to know that Harry’s touched other people, and not have that crush his entire world. “Did you like her a lot?”

“I liked her, yeah,” Harry says, smiling lopsidedly, shrugging a shoulder, “don’t know about ‘a lot’.”

“Why did it end?”

He grins, a little. “I talked about you. She heard the pronoun. Apparently, bisexual men are either gay or in denial.”

“Ah,” Louis nods, “yes, I think I did read that somewhere. You really should keep yourself more up to date with these things. Save you a lot of wasted time and trouble.”

Harry laughs. “Anyway, that was probably, like… a month ago. A month before you came home. I hadn’t even kissed anyone for a month when you did.”

“That actually explains a lot.”

Harry rolls his eyes, but he can’t run from the way his cheeks cherry up a bit, crooks of his mouth twitching. “Don’t be mean.”

“I’m sorry,” Louis chuckles, “sorry, I— no, really, I am. I mean it. I’m sorry you nearly bloody well drowned me in jizz.”

“Oh, fuck off, I’m going to bed.”

Louis barks a laugh and kicks out at Harry’s bum as he moves to leave the room, but misses.

Harry stops halfway to the bedroom-door. “I know you’re laughing right now, Lou, but I hope it didn’t— make you sad or anything. Hearing me talk about those other people? I only told you because you asked and I want to be honest about everything from now on.”

“No, it’s— it’s fine,” Louis says, and he think he might actually be telling the truth. “It’s fine, I mean— obviously, I’m never going to be elated, hearing that you’ve fucked other people. But I’m happy that you’re doing the whole… radical honesty thing. Or at least, that you’re open with me if I ask. And you know, I’ll tell you mine too if you want it.”

Harry nods. “Thanks,” he says, “I don’t want to know it,” he adds, “I mean, I— my mind is too graphic, it creates these disgusting images, I don’t want to think about you getting— if it’s not with me, I mean, it’s— but I appreciate the offer, I guess.”

“Goodnight,” Louis says.

“Goodnight,” Harry replies, smiling, and then turning, and then turning once more, “— oh, and by the way, I’m sorry if I wake you in the morning, but I’ve got a meeting to go look at a flat tomorrow, so I’ll be getting up a bit early.”

“Oh. Right. Yeah, okay.”

 

*

 

Louis pretends to be asleep when Harry gets up in the morning and gets ready, keeps his face in the pillow until the door slams shut and he’s alone. When Harry comes home later on, they don’t talk about it. They don’t talk much at all. Sunday, they talk a bit, but not about _it_ , and Monday, Louis starts uni, after which there isn’t really any time to talk. He’s studying ‘soft subjects’, as Eleanor calls them, ones he’s chosen out of personal interest, mostly, and won’t use for much else than to teach onto others, so you’d think it was easy.

It isn’t. There’s a shitload of reading to do, right from the get-go, a fuckload of people to get himself acquainted with, and a cuntload of start-of-term social events. It’s fun, and interesting, and the people in Louis’ drama-class in particular, are some of the coolest ever, but it’s stressful as hell, too. Doesn’t leave any room to worry about how much he’s worrying about Harry.

When Harry goes on yet another flat-tour that same week, Louis gives himself a bit of a reality-check. If Harry moves, there’s no way he’s going to be able to afford this place on his own, even if he gets an extra job on the side. It’s time to make a move.

He calls up Joe and gets the number of the guy in the rental-room, then calls up that guy, then immediately calls him by the wrong name once he picks up and embarrasses himself. The guy - _Tom_ , not Tim - is nice about it, though, and lets Louis know that he’s leaving the room in two weeks, but that it isn’t up to him who takes over. He then promises he’ll put in a good word for Louis - _a friend of Joe’s is a friend of mine_ \- and gives Louis the number of his landlord. Louis calls her up then, calls her by the _right_ name, thank fuck, and chats to her for a bit. She seems nice, and tells him they haven’t found anyone to take over for Tom yet and that he can come have a look at the place this Thursday if he wants.

He tells her all right, he will and he’ll look forward to it, spur of the moment excitement, then hangs up with a smile still stitched across his face. This’ll go well.

Then he steps in from the balcony, where he ran to make his phonecalls, to avoid Harry hearing and things getting tense again, and finds Harry on his way in from the hall, pizza’s in hand.

“You were on the phone so long and I didn’t want to disturb you, so I just got pepperoni for you,” he says, smiling sweetly before he places the pizza-boxes on the coffee-table and plops himself down on the couch, “hope that’s all right.”

“Yeah, I—” Louis swallows at the sudden lump in his throat, then scratches at it instead when it doesn’t help, “thank you, pepperoni’s always good. How much do I owe you?”

“Fetching the remote’s fine.”

“No, seriously, how much?” Louis asks, looking through his wallet, “think I’ve got cash….”

“Louis, seriously, just sit down,” Harry says, and Louis would’ve ignored him if he didn’t suddenly sound so sharp, “why won’t you just let me get you?”

Louis lowers his wallet, but doesn’t put it down, restlessly taps it at the palm of his hand while he looks Harry over. “I just don’t like—”

“What?” Harry sighs, taking his gaze off the ham- and pineapple pizza slice he was about to devour.

And— Louis’ tired. He had a long day at school, and then a stressful time afterwards, giving his resume out to every possible part-time study job closeby, and now he’s just planned to go look at the place he’ll move to because his eight year-relationship’s fallen apart. He’s fucking knackered. And Harry ordered pizza. If Harry wants to pay for him, he should be grateful, and nothing else.

“Nevermind,” he says, plopping down beside him, “thank you, this was really nice of you.”

Harry waves him off. “It’s just fucking pizza, Louis, stop acting like I’ve bought you a bloody Rolex, you’re making me feel like I never buy you anything.”

“You _shouldn’t_ ever buy me anything. I can pay for my own things, can’t I?”

“Yes, but— yes, I just meant… before. We always paid for pizza here or there, there wasn’t this weird, like…” he waves his half-eaten pizza-slice around in circles, “who pays what, how many pence was that one slice of pepperoni and who’s milk is that and stuff. It’s weird. Makes me feel uncomfortable. You can have anything of mine, eat anything of mine, I don’t— but nevermind. I’m ranting. Just eat.”

 _It’s because we aren’t together anymore_ , Louis’ thinks. _It’s because when we eat together every night and when you tell a horrible joke and secretly love it when I tease you for it, or you walk around the flat naked like nothing because I’ve seen everything before anyway, or when you ask me how school was, every single day, soon as I come home, it still feels like we are. That’s why it’s confusing. That’s why it’s fucking impossible to forget, even for half a day at a time, how much I wish we still were_.

“I just spoke to the woman who might rent me a room,” Louis says.

Harry’s stops chewing, just for a second. Then he starts up again, nodding. Doesn’t take his eyes off the telly. “All right. What’d she say?”

“Said I could come have a look this Thursday. That they hadn’t found anybody else to take over yet. And, like… the guy who’s moving out said he’d put in a good word for me cause he knows my friend from New York, so— I mean, I think I’ve got pretty good chances.”

Harry nods again, once, sharply. “When’s he moving out? The guy?”

“Two weeks,” Louis says, and doesn’t miss the way Harry’s jaw tics.

“Oh.” For a second, it looks like he’s going to say something more, but then he doesn’t. Then he just nods again, and begins to peel another slice of pizza out of his box.

And for the first time since he saw Harry again, Louis genuinely feels like he might cry. He’s been telling himself, lately, that he’s stronger than he was, but in a moment like this, when it really hits him, that they’re not going to be an entity anymore, no HarryandLouis, no Harry and Loui _s’_ , he wonders whether he’s even changed at all. He wonders whether the only reason he’s felt all right through any of this, watching Harry go off to look at flats without him, knowing they’re running out of time, soon, reaching their final expiration date, is that he’s been pushing it away. That he’s been here, with Harry, every evening, and he’s been able to ignore the thing that’s waiting right round the corner. Maybe he’s just a scared little boy still, hiding under his warm comfortable duvet, thumbs in his ears and eyes squeezed closed, singing to himself to drown out the sounds of the monster that’s coming toward him, one painfully slow footstep at a time.

“I made a bid on the flat yesterday.”

Louis’ hand cramps up around his pizza-slice. “I thought you said you didn’t like it.”

“Not the second one,” Harry says. He’s put down the slice he took out before, hasn’t even had a bite of it, “the first one. I actually really liked it. And the price was good, too, so…”

“Right,” Louis breathes, shakily, “all right. Brilliant. Yeah.”

Harry licks over his lips, nodding. He isn’t looking at the telly anymore, or his food, gaze stuck somewhere between the two, eyes gone glassy. He tries to run his fingers through his hair, but realises he’s got it up in a bun and stops himself, scrubs the hand across his mouth instead. “Yeah,” he says, eventually, low and toneless, “yeah.”

Louis nods, even though Harry isn’t looking at him. He glances over at his pizza and feels hungry still, but too tired to lift the slice, chew it, swallow it. Mostly, he’s too tired to stay seated here, feeling just as tense as Harry looks. “Would it be all right if I took the bed tonight? Now?” he asks, “I’m really, I’m just knackered.”

Harry looks up, for the first time in ages. His eyes are reddish, not watery, but just… sad. “Yeah, of course, Louis,” he says, and his voice is so breathy, so soft that Louis just wants to pull him in and cradle him to his chest, but he doesn’t, “just go, I’ll put your pizza in the fridge.”

“Oh, right, the— no, I’ll put it away now, don’t worry about—”

Harry grabs his wrist when he reaches down to pick the box up. It jolts through his entire body, the shock of it, the skin on skin.

“What?”

Harry looks up at him, for a dreadfully long moment, bites his lip and shakes his head. “Just— let me do it,” he ends up saying, quietly, looking away again, “let me put this away for you, just go to bed, I know you’re tired, you’ve had a long day. I’ll— do it.” He lets go of Louis’ wrist, but the moment Louis starts to move it’s as if it sets off a bit of panic in him, and he blurts out what he wanted to say all along; “I’m really proud of you.”

Louis stops in his spot. “What?”

“I’m just— I’m really proud of… I’m really proud of everything you’ve done for yourself. How brave you’ve become. How you went out there and did something on your own, even though neither of us had been without each other for nearly a decade. I think we both needed that, you know. And I’m just— I’m really proud.”

Louis doesn’t say anything for a moment, uses it to steady the lump in his throat, before he finally does speak; “you think I’ve gotten braver?”

“I think the Louis you were a year ago would’ve never quit his job to go to back to school. You would’ve stayed there forever, just to be certain that you were… certain.”

“Right. Yeah, you’re… you’re right,” Louis says, because yeah, that’s actually true. “Wow, I—” he swipes under his eyes, swiftly, because some dampness had accumulated there, but he isn’t crying, not really, “thank you for saying that, Harry. I really needed to hear that. Wow. Thank you.”

Harry smiles, closed-mouthed and tender. “I mean it,” he says, “and also— I’m sorry if I’ve held you back. For a long time. I’m sorry if I’ve held onto you in a way that’s made it impossible for you to move forward. I was— selfish and scared too. But I want you to be happy. More than anything, however you go about it, I just- I want the best for you. I do.”

The lump in Louis’ throat’s gone hard, fucking painful, and he wants to say something, he wants to say a million things, but he can’t manage, so instead he just nods again, smiles a little. He hopes it’s enough.

It doesn’t quite feel like it was, when he closes the bedroom-door behind him and slips into bed alone. He falls asleep that night, restless.

 

*

 

He wakes, and jumps up when he realises his alarm isn’t ringing, that it must’ve failed to go off. It’s not until he’s already out of bed that he realises it’s pitch-black out. He checks the time, and yeah, fuck, it’s only half past one AM. But the sudden wave of panic’s woken him up now, enough that the knows he’s just going to be staring at the ceiling for twenty minutes if he goes right back to bed.

He pads through the livingroom instead, careful not to wake Harry, or look at him, and into the kitchen. He pulls his pizza-box from the fridge, and a can of beer and then hauls himself up onto the kitchen-counter to sit. He moves the toaster a bit, rests back against the wall and eats in silence, looking out at the night-sky like some kind of pretentious dick.

One of the first nights they ever spent in this flat, they sat right here, together, and ate pizza, because they didn’t have any furniture yet. They weren’t looking at the night-sky then, although Louis’ sure Harry would’ve been if he’d been alone, but they weren’t that night. They were looking at each other.

He isn’t sure what part about leaving here seems worse; never getting to sit on this counter again, smoking out of the window or chatting shit while he watches Harry cook, or never being sure when or if he’ll get to look at Harry again.

He stops wondering about it all-together, because the first part makes him feel horribly nostalgic and the second’s just fucking— horrible.

“Hey.”

The rusty drawl startles Louis, so much that his beer slips right out of his hand. It hits the floor with a loud clonk, contents seeping out, running right to the tips of Harry’s toes.

“Shit,” Louis says, belatedly, “gave me a fright.”

“Sorry,” Harry mutters, leaning down to pick the can up. He doesn’t move to pick up the kitchen-roll or anything else to sweep up the mess, and Louis doesn’t either, stays seated, looking at him. He’s in his black boxershorts and nothing else, long hair in the same bun as it was earlier, curls springing out round his face, a few longer strands falling down his shoulders. “What are you doing up?” he asks.

“Couldn’t sleep,” Louis says, because it’s as good as the truth, “sorry, did I wake you when I walked through?”

“No,” Harry says, and then, after a beat, “yeah.”

Louis chuckles lowly. “D’you want a slice?”

“No thanks, I’m all right.”

Louis looks him over, waiting for more, but nothing comes. The moon shines in through the window, lands on the side of Harry’s face, lights his eyes bottlegreen, makes him look so painfully beautiful. Makes him look like something Louis can’t stand not reaching out and touching, drawing in and kissing. He looks away again.

Of course, that’s when Harry finally does say something. “The thing is, Lou, that I’m holding myself back a lot. At the moment.”

“What do you mean?” Louis asks, and tries not to look at him. Fails.

Harry tilts his head, brows furrowing, and he looks so sorry, so young, so, _so_ beautiful. He looks like Louis’, still. “I keep waiting for you to say what I want you to say,” he says, “but that’s not fair on you, because I have no fucking idea what that is.”

Louis swallows. “I’d say it,” he hears himself say, quiet, but sure, “if I knew what you wanted me to say, I’d say it.”

“I don’t want you to say anything you don’t really mean.” He ducks his head for a moment, takes in a deep breath, chest widening and then falling again as his lips purse on a shaky exhale. “I just really, I—” his voice is smaller, wounded, “I just don’t want to hurt like this. Anymore.”

Louis lets go of a breath he’d been holding, gaspy as it escapes him. “What hurts you?” he asks, “Harry, what hurts you? If it’s anything I can help, then I’ll change it. I don’t want to make you hurt, ever.”

“It’s just because—” Harry shakes his head like he thinks he’s stupid, like it doesn’t matter anyway, “I don’t know.”

“You _do_ know,” Louis says, because he  _isn’t_ stupid and it _does_ matter, “you _do_ know. Harry, I can see it on you, please don’t hold back with me, you—”

Harry finally lifts his head. “It’s just because I want you still,” he says, “but I also want to move out and I don’t think that I—”

“What?” Louis asks, heart thumping hard against his chest, picking up pace, “what, Harry, please don’t drag it out, you’re killing me here.”

“I don’t want you to move in with us.”

Oh. Louis nods, pressing his lips together. He doesn’t know what his expression says, but he doesn’t think it’s very far from what he’s feeling inside, because Harry bites his lip, looking so sorry it’s sickening. “Okay,” Louis says, “well, so, what are you—”

“It’s just that… I’m not sure you really want to. I could be wrong, but— but if I’m not, I,” he shakes his head, “Louis, I can’t think like I used to. I can’t have you moving in, and being stepdaddy - because that’s what you’d be to her - and then have you and I screaming at each other, or things falling apart within three weeks, I can’t— I can’t live with someone unless I’m sure, _really_ sure. I don’t want to confuse Charlie, she’s had enough of her life turned upside down this past year.”

“Okay.” Louis closes his pizza-box, slides it off his lap and turns to face Harry fully, legs dangling over the edge of the counter, “well, if you don’t want to be with me, you don’t have to feel guilty. If we’re not going to be together, we’re just not. I’m a big boy, Harry, you’re not responsible for my happiness in life.”

“I know,” Harry says, immediately, “I know, but—”

“But what?”

Harry rests his hand at the edge of the counter, looking away, round the floor, and then back at Louis, nervous. “I guess I thought, or… or hoped you’d say something that’d make me feel like I could be a hundred percent sure and I could ask you if you wanted to come live with me, but I don’t think you will. Because I don’t think you really want to, right now.”

He stops, just looks at Louis, and Louis knows this is his moment. This is where he objects. This is where he cries out  _no! No, that’s not true, I want to go right back to where we were before and I want to do it all immediately!_ He knows it’s the moment and he lets it pass him by. He isn’t entirely sure why, but maybe that’s the entire point of it. Maybe Harry’s onto something.

“But, then what are we clinging to? Really?” Louis asks, “is it just because it’s hard letting go? Is it just the memories we’re caught up in?”

“That’s what I’ve been telling myself,” Harry says. He steps closer, once, and once again, then stops, just before he’s close enough to touch.

Louis’ body screams at it, but he keeps himself still, keeps his mouth shut.

“I’d managed to think that were true, that I was just in love with a memory of something we used to have. But then, like… I just feel like,” Harry looks up, smiling a little, “when you came home, even after all that time apart— or, or just, when I came home to you, that first night, when I came home and you were there, or when we’re eating dinner together and you’re chatting shit like no fucking end, or when you mock my outfit or you just, kind of, smile at me before you leave for school and stuff, or— or just, really, just when we sit on the couch in the evening and watch telly, without even touching or talking, I just feel like, I just have this feeling in my gut,” he says, “that I had nine years ago and still, today, that this is just... where we belong, you know?”

Louis bites into his lip, hard enough to hurt, but it doesn’t. He doesn’t feel anything, hear anything, see anything apart from Harry, right there in front of him, saying exactly what he’d been thinking but hadn’t known how to put into words. _This is where we belong_.

“And— and it doesn’t matter where we actually are, or anything,” Harry goes on after a moment, “I mean, I don’t mean this flat, or this town, or constantly, every single day, because I don’t think that’s what we necessarily need, right now. I just mean, like— together. That’s what I mean. That’s where we belong,” he stops, to catch his breathe, and study Louis’ reaction. “I just love you,” he says, shoulders low, eyes earnest, “and I just— it hurts to let you go, but it hurts ten times more if I know I let you go without at least telling you what I really feel. That I’m still just… exactly as in love with you as I was nine years ago. And I still want to make things work in some way, because I feel like we still could.”

Louis tilts his head back against the wall behind him. His breathing’s shallow, feels loud and embarrassing, and his fingertips are buzzing, everything feels electric. He wants to get it right, wants to start this new thing out in a way that sets the standard for how it’s going to go, but what he ends up saying, when he’s been quiet for so long that Harry starts to look seriously worried, is just; “okay.”

Harry blinks. “Okay?”

“Okay,” Louis says, “I think that’s— yeah. I, ehm… I don’t know what else to say, but I think that’s a good thing. I think that’s because you’ve just said everything I didn’t know how to say.”

“So, so do you, are you—”

“I’m in love with you too. Still.”

Harry smiles and sighs at the same time, relieved, and then steps closer, finally close enough to touch. And Louis gives into himself this time, reaches out and tugs him in by the wrist. Harry goes easily, stumbles in until his hips knock up against Louis’ legs and, when Louis spreads them, the edge of the counter. He puts his big hands on Louis’ thighs, warm as they splay out on his skin and slide upwards. “So let’s just take this one day at a time,” Louis says.

“Yeah, okay,” Harry leans in enough that Louis can feel his breath on his lips, their noses sliding past each other, “one day at a time.”

Harry flops their noses together, pants at Louis’ mouth like he’s afraid of something, rucks his hands up and down his thighs like wants to warm him, or set his skin on fire. 

He kisses Louis just as he’s opened his mouth to fucking beg him to.

Louis gasps out through his nose, and Harry’s hands ride up his sides, fingers gentle over his ribs, calming him down. He tastes familiar when he slots his tongue into Louis’ mouth, but it isn’t like the other night, it isn’t rushed, or stained with lust, not yet. It’s slow, dipping in and feeling Louis’ mouth out, only steering it a little bit. Louis wraps his hands around his shoulders, wants him closer, wants the press of his warm wide chest against his own, but Harry can’t come any closer, hips blocked by the fucking counter.

Harry chuckles when Louis makes an displeased noise, and breaks away from the kiss. “C’mere,” he says, hands going round to Louis’ arse, pulling him to the edge of the counter, close enough that their stomachs touch. He moves in again, mouths at Louis’ jaw, down his neck, kneads gently at his arse while he works up a bruise on his collarbone.

Louis rakes a hand into his hair, letting his head roll back as Harry moves further down, bites at his peck and then kills Louis’ _ow, fuck you_ by sucking his nipple into his mouth. “Oh, _ah_ —”

“Baby,” Harry hums, low against his hardened nipple, and licks over it to make Louis hiss, fist his hair harder. He moves to put it back in his mouth, bites him gently and wraps a hand around Louis’ ankle when he kicks a leg out. “Did I hurt you?” he asks, and his mouth is so spit-slick and red that Louis’ dick jerks at the sight.

“Little bit,” he says, even though it didn’t, really, at least not more than he likes for it to.

Maybe Harry knows, or maybe he just doesn’t care, but either way he dips in and bites Louis again, a little harder.

“Hey,” Louis says sharply, yanking Harry’s head back by the hair, “be nice.”

“I’m always nice,” he drawls, filthy, and Louis rolls his eyes and slaps him over the cheek, gently. “Violenceee,” Harry whines lazily, and jumps back with a giggle when Louis tries to slap him again. Then he turns and trots off. He stops in the door, turns halfway and raises his brows at Louis, “well, are you coming or what? My dick isn’t going to suck itself.”

Louis hurls the entire pizza-box at him, laughing. Harry whacks it away with his right hand, raises his brows at Louis again and Louis flips him off. Then he shrugs a shoulder and leaves the room. Louis manages to stay seated for all of three seconds, before he gives in and jumps off the counter. He tackles Harry halfway through the livingroom, arm around his neck and teeth in his shoulder.

Harry winces a little, then laughs a lot and lets him jump up to piggyback.

“That’ll be two pounds fifty, madam,” he says, putting Louis down on the bedroom floor.

“Fuck off,” Louis cackles, closing the door while Harry shakes his hair out and then throws himself backwards onto the bed.

Louis turns and leans back against the door for a moment, just looking Harry over. The smirk on Harry’s face slowly fades, eyes going serious again, softer. He reaches down slowly, gaze not leaving Louis’, and begins to pull down his boxers, dick flopping out and resting at his stomach, fat and drooling. Louis swallows just to steady himself, cocking his head back against the door and squeezing his own dick through the fabric of his trackies.

“You look... _so_ good, Lou,” Harry breathes, dick in hand, lazily jerking, eyes half-lidded and dark. “D’you know… the other week?” he drawls, low and rough, “when I slipped after you’d mopped the floors and you came running out naked? Been wanking to that image since.”

Louis swallows a moan, gives his dick another squeeze.

Harry looks him up and down, slowly, then lets go of his dick and sits up, scoots to the edge of the bed and puts his feet down, legs spread wide. His lips are wet, because he keeps fucking licking them, sucking them in and biting them cherry-red.

Louis steps inbetween his legs, pulls his dick out and feeds it into Harry’s mouth. Harry closes his eyes, face going peaceful, pretty, brows drawing together as he sucks Louis up to full hardness.

His fingers crawl up the back of Louis’ thighs, get a hold of his trackies and pull them down. They land on the floor, and as Louis begins to step out of them, his dick slips out of Harry’s mouth.

Harry coughs and wipes his mouth off with the back of his hand, sitting back.

“Thank you,” Louis says softly, raking his fingers through Harry’s long hair, elastic band gliding out of it easily, “you look,” he glides down into Harry’s lap, hands coming up to cup his face, “ _so_ good too, Harry. So, so lovely, baby.”

Harry smiles between his hands, strong arms closing round Louis’ waist, getting him close as possible, thighs framing his own hips. It overwhelms Louis suddenly, sitting naked in Harry’s arms, everything around them quiet, still, and Harry’s body so alive against his own, heart hammering like Louis’, stomach lifting against his own as he pants. He’s horny, wanting, but he’s suddenly also so filled up with need that he just locks his arms around Harry’s neck and buries into his shoulder. Harry’s body responds instantly, arms squeezing tight around him, mouth pressing into Louis’ neck.

“Mm, missed you,” Harry mutters into his skin, one hand scratching up through the back of Louis’ hair, the other down around his arse, just holding on, “missed you, love you so much.”

“Love you too,” Louis says, and it gets muffled in the crook of Harry’s neck, but it doesn’t matter. He thinks the way he holds onto him for dear life says enough.

Harry presses a little kiss to his cheekbone, one to the crook of his mouth, and another, and another, until Louis gets the hint and tilts into it, lets Harry slip his tongue into his mouth and start to rut up against him. His cock feels wet and fat against Louis’ stomach, and he wants to look at it, wants to feel it in his hand like that again, put it in his mouth.

He pushes Harry’s shoulders back gently, following him down onto the mattress and deepening the kiss, taking control of it. Their cocks slide up against each other and Louis moans, arching into it as Harry’s hands come down his back, grabbing hold of his arse, fingers digging into the flesh. His thumb brushes over Louis’ rim, lightly, and Louis wants that, he really wants that, but he wants something else first. He reaches behind himself, grabs onto Harry’s wrists and pulls them back, pins them to the mattress.

“What—” Harry rasps, voice shot to hell already, lips so red Louis has to dip down and kiss him again.

He continues down Harry’s jaw, his throat, chest and stomach, and Harry doesn’t ask him _what_ again. His abs are jumping in anticipation when Louis reaches down there, hips snap upwards when he nips gently at Harry’s happy trail. He doesn’t fuck around about it, can tell Harry’d be more frustrated than titillated by it at this point, and just wraps his hand around his fat cock and puts it in his mouth.

“Oh yes,” Harry croaks out, fingers twitching where he’s splayed them out on top of Louis’ hand. “Oh, yeah, babe, can you—” he cuts himself off with a broken moan when Louis takes him down deeper, cups his balls and thumbs at his taint, “ _ah_ , Lou, let me touch. Please.”

And, even after not having had each other in eight months, Louis knows what he means. What he wants. He pops off Harry’s dick, rolling his eyes at the displeased noise Harry can’t stifle, and shifts off of his thigh and up to the side of his hip instead. He pushes up on his knees and then gets down and sucks him sideways.

Harry doesn’t waste time, slides a hand right up his spine, over his arse, down his thighs and up again. “I love this,” he says hoarsely, running his finger from Louis’ arsehole and down the slope of his back, “how you arch when you get on all fours…”

Louis can’t really say anything, but lifts his gaze, looks Harry in the eye, hopes he conveys _shut the fuck up and keep touching me_.

Half of it works.

“Lick the head,” Harry says, hand going up Louis’ back again, to his arse, and Louis backs into it as good as he can while getting Harry’s dickhead how he likes it, “a- _ah_ , fuck, you’re so good,” Harry breathes, pad of his finger rubbing Louis’ role. Louis rolls his hips back on him and Harry pushes the finger into him, up to the second knuckle and then stops, waits for the lines of Louis’ back to untense again before he pushes all the way in.

He curls his finger right and Louis moans around his dick, writhes and rolls his hips back on him. Harry spits on his free hand and slathers Louis’ arsehole up, works another, and then another finger into him, fucks him so good that Louis ends up sliding off his dick and just pressing his face into Harry’s stomach, clutching his thigh, biting at his hip. He’s too loud, he’s too fucking loud and his dick is leaking, he can feel it, wrecking the sheets beneath him, and he can’t control himself, it’s so good. Harry doesn’t moan about his cock even though Louis knows he’s fucking dying for more attention to it, just rakes his free fingers into Louis hair and scratches at his scalp. It’s so affectionate and soft, in contrast to the way he’s fingerfucking Louis’ arse, and Louis’ stomach curls up with that all-consuming need again.

“Okay, fuck, fuck,” he exclaims, snapping his head up from where it’s been pressed into Harry’s stomach, and sitting back, Harry’s fingers slipping from his arse. “Fuck, okay.”

Harry smiles softly, folding his arms up behind his head and watching Louis as he throws a leg over his hip and straddles him. His dick lays at his stomach, in a small pool of precome, head nearly purple. Louis takes pity on him, wrapping a hand around it, stroking him lazily as he pulls open Harry’s nightstand-drawer.

Harry makes a small noise, like in objection, but cuts it off before it becomes a proper word.

Looking into the drawer, Louis gets why. The two packets of condoms they had lying there unopened, just in case, have been ripped apart, only a couple left inside. The bottle of lube they hadn’t gotten round to using yet because Louis had a big three-pack in his nightstand, is near-empty.

Right.

When Louis looks back at Harry, bottle in hand and condom between two fingers, Harry’s watching him, nervously, chewing on the side of his mouth. “We don’t need to use it,” he mutters, after an awkward cough, “the condom. I’ve— I mean, I’ve been using them, always, and I’ve been tested since anyway, so…”

“Yeah, me too, so— okay,” Louis flicks the condom away. He begins to lube Harry up, but can’t quite bring himself to look at him, because he knows he’s still sporting that stupid fucking worry-look, can still feel his eyes boring into his forehead. In the end, he gets irritated enough that he remarks dryly; “fuckload of lube used for someone mostly fucking women, though. Aren’t cunts supposed lubricate themselves if you’ve done the job right?”

Louis looks up at him, brows arched, and Harry’s expression finally breaks into a little bit of a grin. “Sure,” he drawls, “but I like it better in the arse.”  

“Oh, sweet-talker,” Louis snorts, and then sinks down on his cock.

Harry throws his head back, moaning, and Louis slumps over him, groaning. “ _Fuck_.” He took too much to start with, more than he’d been prepared for and his body wants to escape the burn, thighs begging him to jump up and off. He presses his hands down hard on Harry’s chest, nails digging into his skin, and forces himself to stay seated.

“Louis,” Harry grits out, eyes squeezed shut, nostrils flared, palms sweaty as they rub up and down Louis’ quivering thighs, trying to soothe him, “shit, you’re like—”

“Yeah,” Louis croaks, rocking back and forth, slowly, hardly moving, “I’ve just gotta— it’s good, just give me a second to adjust.”

Harry exhales sharply through his nostrils. “ _Filthy_ tight, you.”

“Stop talking shit, you—”

“I mean it, it’s— _fuck_ ,” Harry hisses, scrubbing a hand over his face, palm sliding round with how sweaty he is, “fuck, whoever fucked you hasn’t fucked you right, you’re fucking strangling my dick.”  

“Yeah?” Louis asks, “s’it hurt like you’re splitting apart down the middle?”

Harry chuckles breathily. “Sorry,” he says, giving Louis’ thighs a squeeze, “you all right?”

Louis focuses in on his face, on the little bead of sweat running down his temple, and not the pain in his arse. “Yeah, just- open your eyes.”

“Give me a second, I’m just trying to envision my gran’s knickers.”

Louis chuckles and pinches his red-flushed chest.

“Okay.” Harry opens his eyes, grinning a bit, but there’s a vein at his temple that won’t stop jumping, and his fingers keep cramping up around Louis’ thighs. The burning stretch has finally started easing off a bit and Louis sits back, little by little, until he’s fully seated, head thrown back, eyes closed. He grinds down first, just to feel Harry brush up against all the right places, and it’s _so_ good, so much better than he’d thought it’d be already, that he does it again, and again, until he can start to build up a rhythm, bounce up and down, palms flat on Harry’s chest.

“Fuck, _ah_ , fuck yeah,” Harry blurts, head rolling back in the pillow, eyes fluttering closed before he forces them open again, watches Louis ride.

His hands get greedy, go everywhere, up Louis’ arms to feel his biceps, up his thighs to feel them work, his arse, his back, down to his arse again, to feel where he stretches Louis out. It’s good, the visual he’s getting; seeing Harry just lie on his back and love it, but it’s also hard, his thighs beginning to ache, heart pounding so hard he’s going dizzy, sweat running down his spine.

“Harry,” he pants, beginning to slump over again, but Harry stops him before he can, sitting up instead, getting them chest to chest.

His mouth is hot and slick as he kisses Louis, and he feels massive when Louis sits like this, still on his cock, only grinding a bit with the help of Harry’s hands on his arse.

“Let me fuck you,” Harry says, and holds Louis by the back of the thigh and the back of his neck as he lays him down. His dick nearly slips out, but he catches himself last second and fucks in again, hard, making Louis dig his nails into his back.

“Oh, _god_.”

“Yeah, fuck, come on, that’s it,” Harry spews hoarsely, fucking him into the mattress, face in the crook of his neck, “that’s it, let me have it, Lou, let me- _ungh_ —”

“ _Fuck_ , not that much,” Louis exclaims, slapping him over the back when he thrusts in deeper than he usually does, Louis’ arse lifting off the mattress, “not that- _ungh_ , not so deep, not— Harry, I can’t.”

Harry smooths his fringe back from his forehead and kisses his temple, then pushes in again, deep enough that Louis starts to fucking whimper. “Yeah, you can,” he breathes, “you can, let me get all the way up there, babe, you can take me.”

It’s slow, really slow, but it can’t be anything else with how deep Harry stays, and how much Louis’ writhing around in pain and pleasure. He’s pretty certain he’s drawing blood with how hard he’s dug his nails into Harry’s back, or how deep he’s set his teeth in his shoulder, and his legs feel like they’ve gone into a cramp, heels kicking continuously at Harry’s arse and back. He feels like his entire body’s one big nerve, buzzing to the fingertips, and when he comes, he thinks he yells, but he can’t hear it, can’t hear anything, feel anything, but his orgasm, pleasure waving through every inch of his body.

When he comes down enough to sense his surroundings again, Harry’s riding out his own orgasm, pulsing into him still.

Louis rakes a sweaty hand into the back of his hair and slides the other down to cup his arsecheek as he rolls into Louis still, slow and lazy. He feels boneless and drained, but giddy at the same time, light and like he’s on a high. His lips won’t stop throbbing.

“Fuck, you made me come so hard,” he half-laughs, giving Harry a slappy pat on the back, “feel like I’ll be shooting dry for a week.”

Harry lifts his head from Louis’ neck, laughing breathily down at him. He’s drawn blood from his own bottom lip. “Your legs,” he rasps, and looks somewhat in awe, “they were like— fucking quaking around me.” He smiles, soft and drowsy, licks over his torn lip and then reaches down to swipe under Louis’ eyes. It’s only then that he realises he’d been crying, a little bit.

He closes his eyes, trying to steady himself somehow. Harry takes the opportunity to dip down and press kisses to his eyelids.

“Thank you,” Louis whispers, “you were so good.”

Harry lies down again, nips at the side of Louis’ jaw and nuzzles into him. “Wasn’t entirely unselfish,” he drawls, “when you come like that— _really_ hard like that, your muscle, like, convulses around my dick in this sick way. It’s kind of amazing.”

“Selfish prick,” Louis deadpans, giving his hair a little yank.

Harry chuckles hoarsely and nuzzles into him again, rolls his hips just to remind Louis, or himself, that he’s still inside him. “I love you.”

“Love you too,” Louis murmurs, and he wants to nod right off, but he feels like his heads about to drop off the foot of the bed, “but be a dear and pull out and turn me around and put me under the duvet, would you?”

Harry chuckles, and then obliges. They agree, wordlessly, to just curl up together and fall asleep, and then deal with everything else in the morning.

 

*

 

He wakes with a sore arse, of course, so bad that he really doesn’t want to move at all. He waddles into the bathroom anyway and calls in sick for school, then back to bed and lies down by Harry’s side. He’s on his back, snoring, mouth open and soft, pinkish, and still frayed at the bottom. He smells like sex and sweat and feels a bit sticky when Louis lifts his arm and snuggles up to him, but Louis doesn’t think he’s any better himself. He lies for a while, going over last night’s events, and not only the fucking. He thinks about the time before that, all the talking they did, he thinks about something Harry said.

By the time Harry’s yawning and blinking himself awake, Louis’ come to a conclusion. There’s something he has to say.

“Morning,” Harry murmurs, eyes half-lidded, hand going into the back of Louis’ hair, scratching at it. “You look very awake.”

“I am,” Louis says, smiling up at him, “have been for a bit.”

Harry scrunches his nose up a bit. “Aren’t you supposed to be in school or something, little boy?”

“I called in sick.”

Harry’s face goes serious. “Louis, I don’t want to be the reason you— you shouldn’t—”

“You’re not,” Louis says, quickly, “that’s actually, ehm, something I wanted to say. Or tell you, or— well.” He pushes off Harry’s chest and gives himself a second to rearrange himself in a way that doesn’t make him feel like someone’s continually jamming a cactus up his rectum, and also to gather his thoughts. “I called in sick today because I literally can’t walk right. That’s not your fault- and no, I know what you’re going to say, but it still isn’t your fault, no matter what you did last night. _I_ was the one who chose to have anal sex on a school night, knowing I might get a terrible waggle. _I_ was the one who chose that, so that’s on me and me only. I’m a grown man, it’s my own responsibility, it can _never_ be your fault, you didn’t force me to do anything.”

Harry nods, slowly. “Okay…”

“And, ehm— and this is just, eh… fuck, okay, so I’m rambling right now, but what I wanted to say was that— that, right, so…” He shifts around a bit more, “all right, so, yesterday, before we met in the kitchen, before I went to bed the first time, you said something. You said that, like— that you were sorry that you’d held me back. That you’d kept me from moving forward.”

Harry blinks, and Louis gives him a second to remember. He pinpoints the moment he does, his mouth pressing into a thin line.

And yes, he thinks, seeing the frown that forms on Harry’s poor morning-face, it’d be nice to stay in post-sex wonderland forever and just never talk about anything that sticks too deep. It’d be nice never to make Harry make that face ever again, but it’d also be exactly what they’ve tried to do so many times before and then fucking failed because that doesn’t work. Fucking and then never properly talking and then fucking again some more or watching telly or just joking it off, it doesn’t work. It’s the easy way out and Louis isn’t interested in that any more.

“I just wanted to say to you that it is never, ever, _ever_ your fault if I don’t know how to move forward with my life. You are not my parent, you are not my owner, you are not my legal fucking guardian. You are someone that I’ve chosen to spend the past eight years of my life with because I’ve wanted to. That’s it.”

Harry opens his mouth, and Louis isn’t sure whether it’s to object or ask something or just say ‘okay’, but he doesn’t get a chance to speak before Louis feels there’s more he needs to get off his chest first.

“And— and when I left, when I left you eight months ago, I think I did that because somewhere along the way, I’d reached a point where I wasn’t actively choosing to be with you anymore. I was forced to, because I couldn’t not. And- and I’m not saying that I wouldn’t have been with you out of choice anyway, I’m just saying that I was at a place where I couldn’t be sure. Because it wasn’t a choice to me anymore, I was so fucking dependent on you just to feel remotely all right.”

Louis stops, catching his breath. Harry doesn’t try to say anything this time. He just watches him, eyes wide, patient.

“And, ehm— I never want it to be like that again. You hardly had any people in your life apart from me and now you do, now you’re a father and you’re learning what it’s like to be friends with people, properly friends, without relying on flirting or your looks or— you know, just proper friendships and holding onto them and I’m so proud of you for that,” Louis says, and Harry nods like he knows it. “And I was— I was in this space of mind where I genuinely thought I’d struck gold, having someone like you want someone like me. Where I thought if I left your side for just one minute, you’d find someone else, you’d realise you could get better and forget all about me.”

“There’s no one better than you,” Harry says, “not for me, I don’t feel, and if there is, I don’t want them.”

Louis smiles. “I found the courage to leave to work on myself and force myself to think that if you did find someone better, then you were just never meant for me in the first place. But… I left, and I came back, and we’re still here.”

“We’re still here,” Harry says, smiling back.

“And, so— so now, I can feel like you’re genuinely choosing me, over anybody else you could’ve had. You still want me, more than anyone else.”

“I do,” Harry says, “and you—”

“And I feel like if we try again now, I’ll be choosing you too. Like, properly. For the right reasons. And I’m not too scared to try that, because I don’t feel like I’ll completely break down and fucking die if things don’t work out. Does that make sense?”

Harry smiles, wide and toothless. “Yeah, Louis,” he says softly, “that makes total sense.”

Louis bites his lip, nodding.

“Which is quite impressive, considering I literally _just_ woke up.”

Louis lifts a hand to slap at his chest, but Harry catches his wrist and pulls him down to lie on it instead. Louis lets it happen, lets his face rest on Harry, fingers drawing little circles on his skin. He feels at home here, in Harry’s arms. Not in prison, or stranded on an island, or floating on a cloud millions of miles above everyone else. Just at home, safe and happy, right here, where he’s chosen to be.

So, he thinks. Maybe he’ll move into that rental room after all, and Harry will take that apartment for him and Charlie. Maybe they’ll date again for a while.

“Maybe we could choose to go out on a date tonight,” Harry says, “maybe we could choose that place with the cheese-things we never got round to. What do you say, would you choose to say yes to that?”

“Hm... yeah, all right, then,” Louis says, before he chooses to tilt his head upwards and kiss him.


	29. Epilogue

**APPROXIMATELY ONE YEAR LATER**

Louis’ gaze rolls up Janet’s brown-laced boots, which stop just below her knees, and further up onto her stockings. She wears dark-brown stockings, always, thick and woolen, her shirt buttoned so far up it looks hurtful to her throat and her hair braided back so tightly Louis feels for her poor scalp. And yet, one time, he got a sudden burning urge to grab her notebook out of her hands and fling it through the window, for no other apparent reason than to see her raise her voice a little, react in any sort of way. See whether she even would. 

He mentioned it to Harry after the session, slightly frightened by the fucked-up ways of his own brain, and Harry had given him a side-look and said  _maybe someone needs a bit of solo-therapy too, huh?_ And Louis had informed him _well I’d never actually do it, I think the boredom just got to me and my brain got so desperate to entertain itself it went to extreme notebook-stealing, window-smashing lengths_ , and then Harry had scrunched his nose at him and said _have you not seen the photo of her husband on her desk, though? That’s visual entertainment if I ever saw it,_ and Louis had laughed, because fucking hell, he’d been actively fighting _not_ to entertain himself with that photo every session since he first saw it.

They’ve been seeing Janet since a very long while before Louis moved in with Harry - and Charlie, every other week. She prepared them and gave them tools and all that bullshit, and the bullshit really helped. They still see her now, because her bullshit is still needed, if nothing else then just to have one hour a week, entirely and solely devoted to them. As an entity.

“Well, it’s nice to hear you’ve prepared yourself for Christmas with Charlie,” she says, “especially you, Louis, I’m glad to hear you’ve talked through any worries you might’ve had about it.”

Louis zones back into the conversation he’d slipped out of, momentarily distracted by the photo of Janet’s hunk of a boat-owning husband. “Yeah!” Louis says, a little too loud, a lot too late, “yeah, yeah, we did, we did talk, I think it’ll be nice, I’m not that worried anymore, actually.”

“Yes, yes,” Janet smiles, “communication is key, there you go. And don’t you feel a million times less worried about anything now that you’ve talked your worries out with Harry and he’s assured you that you aren’t alone in being a little bit nervous?”

Louis glances over at Harry. Harry’s ogling Janet’s boat-owning hunk of a husband.

“Yeah,” Louis says, stifling a small grin and then looking back at her. “Yeah, it did. I wasn’t that worried, I mean, Charlie and I are like— best friends at this point so we’ll be just fine. To be honest with you, Janet, I’m more worried about Harry and her, she told me the other day she only hangs out with him because he makes her pancakes.”

“Ah,” Janet chuckles, falsely, because she doesn’t appreciate humour. She made that very clear one of the first, or fifth, times Louis attempted to joke his way out of answering a serious question, but she lets it go today, spirit of Christmas and all.

Harry seems to have zoned back in, just in time to announce; “you’re a prick, Louis.”

“ _Harry_ ,” Janet says sharply, “this is a no-name calling, no-swearing zone, remember?”

Louis nods, taking much too much pleasure in watching Harry fight a laugh as he nods and apologises for his misdemeanor.

“Anyway,” Janet smacks her lips, clicks her pen, “since I’m not going to see you before the new year, I wanted to ask you guys one more time. You’ve been living together again for exactly three months now. How is that going? Are there any issues you want to go over, could be small things, anything you haven’t known how to communicate or just something that’s been causing friction?”

Louis looks over at Harry again and Harry looks back over at him. Hm.

“I meaaan,” Harry then drawls, turning back to Janet, lop-sided smirk just small enough that Louis sees it, but Janet can’t, “Louis keeps leaving half-empty tea-mugs everywhere. And I mean, _everywhere_. It’s almost as if he hides them, purposely, like they’re alcohol bottles or something. I find them in the cupboard, behind the loo, between the goddamned couch-cushions, I don’t know what to do with him anymore.”

“I know, I’ve got a problem,” Louis joins in, shaking his head at himself, “one time, I even put one in the dishwasher, that’s how bad it got.”

“Bloody unheard of.”

“All right,” Janet says, slapping her notebook down on her desk, “I think that’s all we’ve got time for today. See you in the new year, merry Christmas.”

“Merry Christmas,” Louis laughs, and Harry does too, half-repressed and giggly, “nice boat in that photo, by the way.”

“Quite the looker, that boat,” Harry agrees.

Janet glances back at the photo, then smiles in a way that tells Louis she knows she’s got something of a distracting looking bloke, shy, but smug, and shows them out.

“Goddamnit,” Harry says, slipping his gloved-up hand into Louis’ as they step out onto the crackly fresh-salted pavements, “should be a law against putting up photo’s of your family-members in your office if your family-members are _that_ fucking distractingly good looking.”

“Should be a law against being that fucking good looking _and_ having a boat at the same time, it’s not bloody fair, I mean, leave _some_ for the rest of us,” Louis says, clamping onto Harry’s arm as the cold really hits him, and nuzzling his nose into his soft woolen coat.

“Heeey, _I’m_ that fucking good looking and I’ve got a boat too.”

“Your boat is a fucking tattoo, Harry, it’s not comparable,” Louis sighs, and then makes way for a couple with a baby carriage, “merry Christmas,” he says, and they reciprocate, and Louis cranes his neck to try and catch a glimpse of their baby, but the little blob’s been completely wrapped up in soft textiles, shielded from the cold December-air.

“Janet’s good, though,” Harry says, when they’ve finally slipped into the warmth of his car, “I feel like— you know, we spoke about maybe not coming back to her after Christmas because everything’s been going so well lately. But maybe, I don’t know, we could keep seeing her for a while. I feel like it’s so nice to get to sit down and really, just— cause we’re so good at distracting ourselves with day-to-day happiness that we forget to talk shit out.”

“Day-to-day happiness,” Louis mutters, “the number one killer of longterm relationships.”

Harry rolls his eyes, pulling out onto the road, and just as he does, groans; “oh, great, it’s snowing again.”

Louis glances over at him, and the way he’s hunching over, looking up at the windshield, like a kid on the first snowy day of December. He hates driving when it’s snowing, or raining, or, god forbid, fucking hailing, but he can’t run from the way his eyes beam up like Christmas-lights. He loves Christmas. The snow, if it shows, the decorations, the mood of things, the presents, the mistletoe he hung in the front-hall and catches Louis in whenever he possibly he can, he loves it all. He’s so looking forward to spending it with Charlie for the first time.

Louis’ so looking forward, to spending it with him for the first time since the first time they didn’t. Last year, he spent it in Doncaster and Harry in Holmes Chapel, Charlie with Marie and Liam. They called each other on Christmas-day and spent New Year’s together, at Zayn and Gil’s party, watched the fireworks together and kissed a lot, but Louis can’t help but feel relieved, happy to his core, that his favourite day a year, birthday _and_ Christmas in one, is going to be spent with his favourite person in the world. And Charlie, another favourite.

“Hey, I got the confirmation for our tickets, by the way,” Louis says, “I’m looking forward, are you?”

“Tickets to what?”

“Oh,” Louis says, realising his happiness fumbled up his words again. It does that sometimes, what with Christmas and Harry in that red sweater and everything. “To New York. For New Year’s.”

“Yay,” Harry says, lazy, but genuine, and slips a hand onto Louis’ thigh. It’s cold, but Louis doesn’t mind, pulling off a glove to lace their fingers together, “looking forward to meeting your friends. And seeing the ball drop, you know I’ve never seen that in real life?”

“Yes, I know, Harry, you’ve mentioned it once a day every day since we decided we were going.”

Harry ignores him, smile still dimpling up his cold-flushed cheeks. “You looking forward to getting snogged right smackbam in middle of Times Square?”

“Yes, although I still haven’t decided who it’s going to be by yet. I’ve got so many suitors, it’s a tough call to make.”

Harry pinches his hand. He opens his mouth to snap back, but then sees something that makes him pull over.

“What?”

“I just—” Harry unclicks his seatbelt and nods at the windshield, but the sweepers have stopped going and the windows been clogged up with enough snow already that Louis can’t see. “Give me second.”

He slips out of the driver’s seat and Louis could give him his second and stay seated, but realistically he can’t because he’s much too much of a curious fuck, so he gets out too.

To find Harry standing by the entrance of a shopping-mall, picking coins out of his pockets, wallet, arse, and piling them into a homeless man’s hat. The man, who’s strumming on his guitar, fingers long and thin and red from the cold, nods and smiles gratefully with every coin Harry plings into the hat. Louis rolls his eyes and bites at a fond smile, coming up to Harry’s side and nuzzling into his arm.

A small flock of people have surrounded the man too, listening to his rusty rendition of _Blue Christmas_ and holding the arm or hand or leash of the loved-one they’re with.

Harry wraps his arm around Louis and presses a kiss to the top of his head. “I love you,” he hums lowly, into his hair.

“Love you too,” Louis says, and he means it, but he’s momentarily distracted by a woman who’s brought someone very small up to her chest. The tiny thing’s halfway inside her coat and covered up in clothes, but Louis can still see it’s scrunched up little face, right under the homeknitted Christmas-hat it’s got on. The mother smiles down at him, or her, and says something that makes it squeak out a little laugh.

Louis chuckles too, without realising it.

“You want one?” Harry asks, mouth having sneaked it’s way to his ear.

Louis shakes his head, just at the shock of it, and looks up at him. “What?”

Harry nods at the baby. Louis fights the urge to look back at it again. “No,” he says.

“You used to,” Harry says, and dips in to kiss him, once, soft and without tongue, “want one. You said.”

Louis reaches up to swipe his cheek, just to feel how frosty it’s gone, how soft it still is, against the hand who’s glove he stupidly left in the car. “I’m cold,” he says, “let’s go back to the car, yeah?”

Harry nods, then leans in and kisses him again, and his mouth is so warm in contrast to everything around it, that Louis grabs onto the front of his coat and leans back a little, lets himself be kissed, lets Harry slide his tongue over the tip of his own, just lightly, innocent.

They’re interrupted by the music suddenly coming to a halt. It’s the homeless man, scowling up at them, yelling in his slurry rasp of a voice. Louis can’t make out much of it, but he does hear _fuck off_ and _bum bandits_. He looks up at Harry and Harry looks back at him and then they both burst out laughing.

“Merry Christmas to you too, buddy,” Harry cackles, flicking him a last coin and then grabbing Louis by the hand and walking back to the car.

“Wouldn’t be for another year or two,” Louis mutters when they slip back into the car, “if I did want one.”

“Okay,” Harry says, smiling softly, “I can wait a year or two.”

Louis presses his smile into the cold window and reaches back just to jab Harry in the side, too light to be anything else than loving. And it isn’t.

 

*

 

Charlie’s scheduled to arrive on their doorstep the day after tomorrow, two days before Christmas Day. Marie’s had her every Christmas since she was born and she’s been very vocal about the fact that she’s dreading the change-up this year. Louis remembers one night in particular, when she called Harry up and started crying on the phone to him, and they spoke for over an hour. _She’s not trying to guilt me out of anything_ , Harry told Louis afterwards, _she’s just trying to be honest and keep communication strong between us. I think that’s only good_. And Louis had believed him, because that fit what Marie had seemed like every other time he’d, reluctantly, seen her this past year. Nice, but never overly so. Communicative, but never overstepping boundaries. Apologetic about everything she needed to be, but unafraid to speak up for herself either.

That isn’t to say he’s never been insecure about her and Harry. He knows she’s settled with Liam, but Charlie’s a living example that being in a settled relationship doesn’t necessarily have to mean anything at all. Before deciding to be properly and completely officially a couple again, Louis and Harry had dates which felt more like interrogations than anything else. If Louis saw something on social media, heard something through someone, knew Harry had a thing where Marie’s presence was needed, he’d have to ask, couldn’t not. For the sake of Louis’ mental state, they’d made an agreement that he was allowed to, and Harry had to answer, honestly, and so far there’s been no reason to believe that he hasn’t.

If someone asked Louis today, _do you trust him?_ Louis would answer them _yes. Yes, I trust him today_. That won’t always be the answer, though, and he still has days where he thinks, _well he did this once, for two whole years, maybe he’s doing it again, why wouldn’t he?_ He’s got a million answers to that question, and they usually calm him back down, but when they once in a while don’t, he and Harry have gut-wrenching rows, which end in Harry letting him go through his phone or Louis spending a night at Zayn and Gil’s.

But that’s rare now. Gets more so every day Harry shows him it’s all right for it to.

If they thought dating each other again, living apart and takings things slow, one day at a time, was going to be easy, they were goddamned fools. They had dates which turned into interrogations, and fights, crying, even awkward silence at some points, and they had one which didn’t even happen because Louis was caught up in school and people, parties, and mindlessly blew Harry off. They had three weeks in February where they didn’t speak at all.

But, in-between all of that, and for a very long while lately, things’ve been getting better. Good. There were dates that left Louis feeling like a fucking fifteen-year-old virgin, hot and tingly all over, nights spent talking till dawn, kissing till their lips went numb, christening every corner of Harry’s new flat. There was flirting, banter, there were daily reminders of everything that makes all the tough stuff worth pulling through.

There was falling in love, all over again.

“What are you smiling for?” Harry asks, walking into the living-room where Louis’ just, sort of, standing.

“Nothing,” Louis murmurs.

He flattens out on the couch, face-down, and Harry rummages around under the coffee-table, looking for the remote.

Harry’s new flat is lovely, much better decorated than their old one, if Louis’ honest. He’d like to think it isn’t because his own touch hasn’t been applied quite so violently here yet, and just the fact that Harry’s seven years older now, than he was when he bought furniture for the first flat. The rooms are smaller, livingroom and kitchen in one, Harry and Louis’ bedroom so small they keep half their clothing in rolling drawers under the bed, but all in all it’s cosy and there’s room for all three of them. Charlie’s five now, and elated to have her own room, for play-dates, having fun without being asked to _quiet down a little, darling, Louis’ trying to read_ , and for Harry to be able to have sex on something other than a couch or in a bathroom-stall at Louis’ university, but shh, that never happened.

“You sure you aren’t thinking about something?” Harry asks again, as he flicks on the telly and lies down on top of Louis, face sideways on the space between his shoulder-blades, big cold hands sneaking under him and up his belly. “You’re all… goofy glassy-looking.”

“M’not thinking about anything in particular,” Louis hums, twisting a hand back to rake into Harry’s hair, pull out his stupid hairband and free it.

“No?” Harry noses into the skin just above the back-collar of Louis’ shirt, lets a hand run down his side, “you’re not sad cause we got hatecrimed by a hobo?”

“Well, he was just stating a fact,” Louis mutters, glancing at the telly and what do you know it, it’s showing the commercial Eli had his big Hollywood-break with, for the forty fucking thousandth time this week. The first time they noticed was two weeks ago, sitting with Charlie, and Harry  _said babe, where have I seen that bloke before, I swear I’ve seen him somewhere_ , and Louis glanced over there and recognized that sleazy smile in an instant. Ever since, Harry’s been unable to watch the commercial without making dry remarks like _still a stripper, then, huh? What’s he doing stripping down to his brief’s in a fuckin’ toothpaste-commercial, the fuckin’ sellout_ or _he isn’t even THAT ripped_ or, his favourite, simple but effective, _fat cunt_. He doesn’t get properly mopey about it like he did the first two times it came on, though, so they survive it all right. 

But Louis still decides to distract Harry right then, by picking back up the conversation; “we _are_ a pair of fuckin’ bum bandits.”

“Me more so than you, though,” Harry argues lazily, voice low and sweet, mouth hot, against the nape of Louis’ neck. He isn’t really looking at the telly, then. “You just like to get dicked.”

“Oh, so if I’d informed Mr. Hobo of that, you think he’d have let up and wished me a merry Christmas?”

“Mhm,” Harry’s cool nose tip brushing up through the faint hairs on the nape of Louis’ neck, lightly parted lips following, making Louis shiver, just a little, “and a happy new year.”

Louis rolls his hips backwards, just because he can, and Harry rolls back on him, just because the same. “Pity I didn’t, then,” Louis mutters, voice stupidly gruff, “could’ve made a lovely new friend.”

“You have enough friends, baby,” Harry says, and finally sits back just enough that Louis can breathe properly again, and that he can shift around to lie on his back, look up at Harry’s pretty face.

“What, you don’t want me to socialize with the nice homophobic hobo?” Louis asks, digging his fingers into Harry’s hair again, getting him down close, close enough to kiss.

“No,” Harry mutters, and the rest of his sentence drowns in a kiss. And then another, and another, and a whole line of sweet little things. “You’d only fall in love with him,” Harry says, eventually, so many kisses later that Louis has to blink and take a second to remember what they were even talking about.

“You know what, you’re probably right,” he says when he does, and then pulls Harry down and kisses him mid-chuckle.

Louis fists up his hair a little, locks his legs around his waist and Harry slides a hand up his shirt again, thumbs at his nipple. They grind lazily, snog intently, and Louis doesn’t even really realise how hard he is until Harry says, hornily slurred; “mhm, want me to suck your cock?”, and before Louis has a chance to say _yes! yes, very yes, please, now, do, yes!_ , adds on, “chicken’s in the oven.”

“Ehm,” Louis pulls Harry back by the hair to frown up at him, “is that some sort of new-age indie slang for something kinky?”

Harry flicks his thumb over Louis’ nipple again, like by accident, but knowing him, probably not. “Wha’?”

“Chicken’s in the oven. S’that like- what, like ‘in the oven’, is that, like, getting someone pregnant or something?”

At that, Harry just looks at him like he’s gone mad. “What the hell are you— pregnant? How is that even sexy?”

Knowing Harry, it could be. “I don’t know, why’d you say that then? Chicken’s in the oven? That was so random, you—”

“Because the chicken is in the oven, perhaps?” Harry says, like it’s the most obvious answer in the world, and yes, yes, now that Louis realises it, it really is. Fuck, he’s so goddamned stupid sometimes. “I just meant, like, it’s done in forty minutes or so, so we have time to…” he circles his thumb round Louis’ nipple again, gives a fake-shy smile, “fool around.”

And, yes, Louis wants that, but what he wants more is for Harry to kiss him again and forget about his recent brain-bleed, including connecting chicken’s in ovens to kinks about pregnancy, or just pregnancy in general. Of course, he doesn’t get it that way, because Harry’s the sort of prick who can’t combine simple words into a sentence when ordering pizza, but picks up on every little tick of Louis’ jaw like he was created just to read him.

“You want that?” he asks, low and slow, as he comes back down, by the force of Louis’ hand, and tongues at Louis’ ear, “you want me to?” he grinds his hips down, makes sure Louis feels just how good he could do it, just how deep he could get his come up, as if Louis doesn’t already know, “get you pregnant, yeah?”

Louis gasps into his neck, unintentional, and tries to save it by snorting dryly. “Don’t think it works like that, love, sorry to disappoint you.”

“I would,” Harry says, and humps him into the couch-cushions like he means it, “I’d get you pregnant, Lou, if you wanted me to, if I could.”

And— it’s hot because it’s kinky, and it _is_ kind of hot in itself, sort of, maybe, and it’s Harry’s voice in his ear, Harry’s cock pressing down on his own, but it puts him off too. Not because it’s too weird, fuck knows they’ve done weirder, thongs and cuffs and piss in the shower, just once when they were young and insane, but mostly because it just— puts him off. A bit.

“If you don’t stop bangin’ on about this pregnancy-shit I’ll make you wear a condom,” Louis says, sharply, and pushes Harry off, before he snatches his wrist and pulls him into the bedroom.

When they’ve worked up quite the appetite, they deck the Christmas cloth- and candle-covered table and sit down to eat together. Harry’s got a Christmas-playlist streaming lowly from the surround-sound system Louis made them get as his first mark on the flat when he moved in. They eat in comfortable silence, candle-lights flickering over Harry’s beautiful face, sweaty curls matted to the sides of it, and Louis’ feet rested atop of his thighs under the table, nodding in tune to _White Christmas_.

“Snowing again,” Harry says at some point, because it is and he might not even realise it, but he’s got a childhood tradition-induced compulsion that makes him mention it every single time he sees snow. Louis never points that out, because that might make Harry stop doing it, and that would leave Louis with the gut-sensation of someone who’d just told a kid that Santa wasn’t real.

Which he of course is, by the way.

“It is,” he says instead, “there’ll be enough that we can take Charlie sledding down that place with the hilly things, I’ve seen people do that before.”

“Yeah, yeah, I know, I wanted to take her last year, but it hadn’t snowed at all.”

“Well, it has this year.”

Harry smiles. “Yeah.”

Louis turns his gaze back to his food, nuzzles his feet into Harry’s thighs and makes sure they don’t drop off, and then goes to have another slice of chicken. That’s when he notices that Harry’s still looking at him. Smiling at him. “What?”

“Nothing,” Harry says, and if Louis didn’t know better he’d think Harry were imitating Louis’ responses from earlier.

“You’re smiling funny,” he says, and Harry chuckles fondly.

“You’re just amazing.”

“And you’re just post-sex affectionate.”

Harry shrugs a shoulder, smile not fading one bit. “I’m just happy I’ve got someone as lovely as you,” he says, and before Louis can pick on him for sounding like the cheesy Christmas-movie they watched last night, adds on; “do you know how much it means to me when you say something like that? That we could take Charlie sledding. When you’re so— like, casually, that she factors in like that, for you.”

“Well, it was selfish, too,” Louis mutters, and maybe he’s slouching, getting his face too close to the candles, he must be, because it’s getting damn flushed all of a sudden, “sledding’s fun, I did it all the time with my sisters back home. But it’s creepy if you don’t bring a child,” he says, and when Harry still keeps smiling at him in that stupid loved-up kind of way, he adds; “especially if you try to bring a child that isn’t your own and the child won’t stop screaming because they don’t know who you are.”

“Yeah,” Harry drawls, like he hadn’t heard a word of it.

“Isn’t anything you can’t fix with a strip of duct-tape over their mouth, though,” Louis says, “isn’t anything at all you can’t fix with duct-tape, come to think of it.”

Finally, Harry hears him, he thinks. “Hey, no, what the hell are you on about?” he exclaims, “duct-tape can’t fix anal tears. Trust me, I’m a certified bum bandit.”

Louis laughs louder than he should.

 

*

 

In the evening, when he’s just finished a chapter in his book and Harry’s yawning into his computer-screen more than he’s writing, Louis decides to be communicative. It’s a rule they have, a promise they’ve made to each other and Janet; they have to be honest if anything gets to them. Even if it’s embarrassing or feels too small or stupid to mention, or just, well— a question they’re scared to know the answer to.

“Babe, could you close your laptop, there’s something I wanted to talk about,” Louis says.

Harry’s head snaps up, shit-scared, and he blurts; “you’re not ill, are you?”

“No,” Louis exclaims, laughing a little, “no, I’m fine, I’m just fine. I mean, I’ve packed on a few round my gut, but it’s Christmas, so…”

“You’ve not packed on shit round your gut,” Harry says, “it’s gone straight to your bum, it’s all jiggly when you walk, I love it.”

Louis flips him off.

Harry closes the laptop, slides it onto his nightstand, props up his pillows and folds his hands over his belly, waiting for Louis to talk.

“Wow,” Louis croaks, “all feels so formal suddenly.”

“Just imagine the audience naked.”

“Great, and now I’ve got an awkward boner too, that’s just bloody—”

“Louis.” Louis shuts up. “Baby,” Harry slides a hand onto his ankle, giving it a squeeze and smiles softly, “quit fucking around and just talk to me. It’s just me. You pissed on me once, I don’t think there’s anything you can say or ask that’ll be too bad.”

Louis rolls his eyes and sighs at the same time, cracks his knuckles and then nods. “Yeah, okay. Okay. So, it was just, like… you know, we spoke, vaguely, about babies and that kind of thing back in the day. Before we knew about Charlie. And- rationally, I know you’re not trying to make me feel uncomfortable or anything, but when you, ehm— I suppose it’s just a bit of an insecurity of mine, that, ehm… when you mention babies, part of the reason I’m reluctant to talk about it anymore is that I’m sad I can’t give you what you have have when you look at Charlie. I’m scared it won’t be the same because or, or— I don’t know, but Charlie looks… so much like you. _So_ much. And a fuckload like Marie too, she looks _so_ much like both of you. If we had a kid, however we went about it, it’d never—”

“Louis,” Harry cuts in, “listen. C’mere.” He sits up before Louis can move, reaches up to cup one side of his face and presses a soft little kiss to his lips. “If I could get you pregnant, I’d get you pregnant right as soon as you felt ready, I’d want that with you. But— no, listen. If I could adopt a baby with you, I’d start the process right as soon you felt ready, I’d want that with you. Equally as much. And I’d love that kid equally as much as I love Charlie, whether they were half me or half you or half two Korean people we’ll never meet. I don’t care about that. It’d be ours. We’d name it and we’d raise it and we’d be it’s parents, it’s _real_ parents.”

“Yes, but- I know that, but if you had the _choice_ , wouldn’t you want—”

“If I had the choice, I wouldn’t have had my first child with someone that wasn’t the man I love, but that doesn’t make me love Charlie one bit less, or want her to be any less of Marie, because then she wouldn’t be Charlie. At the end of the day it doesn’t matter to me, who gave birth to the kid, if it’s my kid, whether adopted or— coming from a terrible hurtful mistake I made, it’s my kid. And then it’s just, you know… my kid.”

Louis nods. “Okay,” he says, “I suppose that does make sense.”

Harry pets his cheek, smiling softly. “Yeah? You sure? We can talk about it some more. As much as you want.”

“I’m good for now.”

“Okay.” Harry kisses him again, lingering just a little bit longer, before he pulls back, “I love you.”

Louis tucks Harry’s hair behind his ear. “You know, you say that so often it’s beginning to lose it’s meaning.”

“Really?”

“No,” Louis swings his legs over Harry’s, shifts up into his lap, “never. Say it again some more, please.”

“I love you,” Harry says, grabbing his bum, pulling him in, kissing his cheek, his jaw, his mouth again, “I love you. I love you. I want to adopt a million little babies with you, because I love you. I love _you_.”

“Okay,” Louis chuckles, pushing him off when he won’t stop plastering kisses all over. “Okay.”

When he flicks off the lights and slips under the covers a little bit later, and fits around Harry from behind, smooths his long hair aside and presses a kiss behind his ear, he does feel better. Calmer.

“Yeah, I think we should keep seeing her for a bit,” he says, “Janet.”

“I agree.”

Louis nuzzles into his warm neck, squeezes his big body closer, and Harry reaches a hand back to stroke his thigh, pull it up and over his own hip.

“I’d still want to wait a year or two, though,” Louis murmurs into his skin, “if I was ever having one.”

Harry takes his hand, threads their fingers together and begins to kiss Louis’ knuckles, one for one. “Yeah. And I’d still want it to be with you,” he says between kisses, “if I was ever having one more. Or like, eight.”

“Steady now, love, one step at a time.”

Harry bites his hand. Louis shrieks and pinches his chest, a bit too hard.

“Fucker,” Harry mutters, “I don’t even want any babies with you, you’re too stupid.”

“Well, too bad, I lied about being on birth control, you’re trapped.”

“Aw, fuck, _that’s_ why you’re begging me to give it to you raw all the fucking time.”

Louis bites his shoulder. “Not _begging_.”

“Fucking down on your knees, _pleading_.”

“That’s not why I’m down on my knees, though.”

Harry sighs exasperatedly. “Why did I know you were going to make that _exact_ joke?”

“Cause I’m old and predictable.”

“Or maybe I just know you too well.”

“Yeah.”

Harry kisses his hand again, right where he bit before. “Yeah.”

Yeah, Louis thinks, right in that moment and a million more to come, this is where we belong.

 

 

 _Well, I've been afraid of changin'_  
_'Cause I've built my life around you_  
_But time makes you bolder_  
_Even children get older_  
_And I'm getting older, too_

\- Fleetwood Mac

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, in the spirit of Christmas, this is my final chapter. 
> 
> Thanks to everyone who's commented, kudos'ed and, well, just read this. It's motivated me so much. 
> 
> This was definitely the story I've felt that I've put most work into, especially on an emotional level. 
> 
>  
> 
> Anyway, please do feel free to comment your thoughts on this fic, I love to hear how people perceive stuff! 
> 
>  
> 
> Ps. on an unrelated note, I'm going to start writing something else soon, so if anyone has, like, a kink or a setting or plot-type idea for me, I'd love to hear it. Anyway, hope you enjoyed this fic, I sure enjoyed writing it :)
> 
> pps. my tumblr is pointerbrotherblog


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